


Evenstar, Evenstill

by Lasgalendil



Series: Evenstar, Evenstill [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Aging, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Comedy, Cultural Differences, Dark Comedy, Drug Addiction, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Elf Culture & Customs, Fanfiction, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Internalized Homophobia, Khuzdul, Language Barrier, Languages and Linguistics, Lesbian Character, Lesbian Character of Color, Marriage Proposal, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Metafiction, Modern Girl in Middle Earth, Movie Quotation(s), Multi, Nerdfighteria, Nerdiness, POV Lesbian Character, Quenya, Racism, Romance, Same-Sex Marriage, Sindarin, True Love, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-01-20 03:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 23,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1494841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And that's the way the world will end: not with a bang, but a near-whispered, awkward request of a LARPing stranger. Ida Anderson just wanted to propose at Comic Con, but an unhelpful Dwarf and an intrusive Elf might mean Middle-earth has other plans. Ida and Prerna are about to go down the hobbit hole…and their own Adventure might just turn out to be quite different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Concerning Humans

**Author's Note:**

> Here begins EVENSTAR, EVENSTILL, the first part of the history of the Sue-Slayers.
> 
> The second part is called EVENSTAR, EVENSTRANGER.
> 
> The third part tells of the last defense against Sanity, and the end of the mission of the Sue-Slayers in EVENSTAR, EVENSTAY.

Prerna likes to look back on our many Middle-earth misadventures and call them our own little Unexpected Journey.

You know what I call it? Shit Narnia.

[Alright, I know at this point you're all panicking. Like, another one of those ridiculous 'girl-falls-into-Middle-earth' fics? No. Not  _exactly_ …]

The thing you have to understand about Prerna is she's not a Ringer.

Not really.

I mean, she's watched the films with me, done the midnight showings for AUJ and DoS, puts up with my book purism, even thinks my ability to write in at least five different modes of tengwar is kinda cute in that adorably awkward way girlfriends do…but she's not that die hard fan who could tell you that Haldir doesn't die in the books, or that Eomer is actually the one who slays Uglúk (Lurtz in the PJverse) in hand to hand combat. Hell, she's still confused as to what Merry and Pippin's full names are.

She doesn't like video games,  _My Little Pony_ , has never made it all the way through  _Dr. Horrible_  or  _Firefly_ , couldn't tell you the difference between  _Star Trek_  and  _Star Wars_  and hasn't a clue what the initials in J.R.R. Tolkien stand for.

But you know what? I fucking love my girl to death.

Prerna's not like me. Hardly at all. She's limber and lithe, petite and just a bit pudgy in all the right places. She's into all this organic tea stuff, buys fair trade organic coffees and chocolate, does pilates and makes homemade yogurt. I mean, last year I bought her a fucking  _juicer_  for her birthday and us a membership at the local co-op. She likes art and anthropology and history, works as a curator's assistant at the Young Minds gallery with her eyes on the curatorship and being an author one day. She's got her bachelor's in anthropology with a psych minor, and a master's in Fine Arts (Creative Writing, nonfiction). And—despite the long hours and what seems to me thankless effort—she's still pursuing her PhD.

Yeah. And me? I'm just a Custodial Assistant at a local hospital. Prerna says it's a euphemism for janitor, I think it's a load of shit, but hey. She's an optimist, and she makes my life all the much more brighter for all those smirky little quips. Euphemism, onomatopoeia, there's all these things, all these words and worlds she introduced me to that I'd never have known. She's made my life bigger in such small ways that I still can't believe it's possible.

[She still can't believe I managed to blunder my way through a book as thick as  _The Hobbit,_  let alone  _The Lord of the Rings*_.]

You know once as a kid I sort of dreamt of being a doctor, but scrubbing stuff on the wards is about as close to it as I'm ever going to get. I made some mistakes early on. Messed up big time. Not the 'got-pregnant' didn't go to college sort of messed up, but the real, career, labeled as a felon, spent some time in juvy and prison sort of fucked up.

But if Tolkien taught me one thing, it's that the Road Goes Ever On. And if I hadn't veered from the pristine Elven path in the Mirkwood Forest of adolescence, I'd never be with the woman I love today.

There's only three things I've ever wanted in life: To love a Luthien, save a Silmaril, and Defeat a Morgoth. I never wanted a Damsel in Distress, I wanted a life partner who was capable and comfortable with herself. Someone I could adventure beside, rather than looking out for constantly. And sure, I've had my fair share of shitty relationships (most of them shitty because of who was in them: me) where it was all about the sex or social statement, the sending a 'fuck you' to the people who tried to tell me what to do with my own body…but I've grown up now. Matured. I met Prerna two years ago and ever since then there is nothing and no one I have ever wanted more than just another moment with her.

I just had to find the perfect way to tell her.

Now the movies indoctrinate us all with one thing, and one thing only: the engagement is all about her. What ring she wants. How she wants you to ask it. What she thinks is the most romantic. It's either manipulative and behind-her-back, or the sheer wonder of surprise and delight is pulled right out beneath her feet by that obligatory trip to the jeweler's to get "the one". I think that's bullshit. I think that's unfair. I think—regardless of whatever anyone else might try to tell me—that marriage is all about two or more people who love each other, who want to spend however much of their mutual lives together as they pledge. And I think this whole idea of attainment objectifies women, objectifies the submissive partner and contributes to the fucked up way we view sex as a culture.

I mean, it's my life, my wedding,  _my engagement_ , too. I wanted Prerna to know that I loved her, more than any of the other things in my life that she knew were important to me. That even though I'd never do something as stupid or immature as giving up video games, cosplay, LotR, or my raging ladyboner for all things Joss Whedon or Scifi for a girl that those same experiences would never be as great, as meaningful to me as when I'd had her there by my side.

I wanted to invite her to share my life. My interests. My bed. Myself. For the rest of my life.

That's how we got there. Met  _them._  That's how this whole entire clusterfuck happened.

So when I tell you how I proposed to Prerna at New York Comic Con (with a platinum 'silmaril' ring I'd commissioned off Etsy), how all this came between us, and how I literally fought the summoned hordes of Sauron* himself to win her back, you've got to understand something:

For not being especially excited about it, my girl looks fuckin' fine in Tauriel cosplay.

* * *

*She does like to say  _The Hobbit_  isn't all that surprising, it being a kid's book and all. In her defense, my copies of  _The Silmarillion, The Book of Lost Tales_ , and  _The Children of Hurin_ (and how many dozens of other Tolkien-related lore or biographies I own?) are all on tape.

*Okay, okay. It's been pointed out to me that this is a bad use of the term literally, so to all you nay-saying grammar Nazis out there, let me point out this is a Hobbit fanfic. I didn't FIGURATIVELY fight the forces of personified Evil (even though I already had and still do in so many ways), I literally did the whole Isildur thing. You know, took up some dead guy's sword and got me some  _yrch_  blood. It's the twenty-first century, bitches. It's high time we all took up Eowyn's mantle and stopped waiting for fictional male characters and saved ourselves. I mean, the Legs and the Gim-man are damned handy in a fight, but out on the battlefield you can't bet your life they'll always have your back.

 


	2. An Unexpected Party

So here's the thing. I'm sure most of you assume if you'd met an Elf and a Dwarf out wandering the streets of Manhattan you'd know it instantly. I mean, Tolkien describes the Elves as fair 'beyond the comprehension of mortal men' or some other MarySuesque nonsense, so maybe your ladyparts would all start tingling. But for  _me_?

…At  _Comic Con_?

Just another set of dudes in cosplay. They seemed pretty tight, you know, dressing as a pair and as one of the fandom's least canonical OTP yaoi shippings , so sometimes a girl just has to shrug and say hey, some Elves marry Dwarves.

…I know Prerna did. And I was just moments from asking her to when I first spotted them.

I'd be informed later that they'd been following us for quite some time. But at that moment I was completely and utterly oblivious. If you've ever been to a Con you'll know what I'm talking about. The most interesting thing in Arda could be right behind you and the crowd jammed in so tight you couldn't turn, like Eowyn's nightmare, just think more Neal Patrick Harris than colossal tsunami. The floor is packed, absolutely packed, even on the final day. I'd been to artist's alley and gotten my loot already, attended all the panels a nerd could dream of (I didn't have tuition to pay, so Prerna's birthday and Comic Con were really the only two things I ever saved up for), and reserved my cosplay for the final day and the big moment*.

I'd gotten her to dress up as Tauriel, sleek vegetable leather corset cinching her waist, accenting her curvy, still somewhat child-like figure but never exaggerating it. She'd always liked her dark hair long, and with the carmel highlights and amber undertones she'd been rocking here recently and the glow of the afternoon sun through the glass it was almost on  _fire._ And damn, with her rich earthly skin did she look fine in jewel-toned green.

Why Tauriel? Because my girl wasn't a useless royal. She worked  _hard_ to get where she was, and she risked everything to be with me. The whole Tauriel/Kili thing is non-canonical as hell, sure, and I'd rather have her know she's my Arwen Undómiel, my Lúthien Tinúviel, but her only impression of Arwen's character is as the meek, unempowered version from the movies. Then there's all the unwanted male attention Prerna has to put up with for being a woman with the audacity to be beautiful. She's got a whole host of creepy second cousins her aunties are always trying to set her up with, not to mention the collective misogyny of NYC: cat-calls, jeering, leering, horns and subway groping…For an Indian chick in a world of white women's privilege where her skin color is never good enough, the Tauriel analogy pretty much makes itself.

[Me? I went as Boromir. What can I say? We all need a little redemption.  _To err_ , the philosopher said,  _is human._  The Professor agreed.]

But I digress. Back to the issue at hand: how do you plan the perfect proposal?

Eh. Don't ask me. I'm not an expert. But I figured—still figure—that the personal touch is so much more important than some stupid rehearsed shit like dinner with wine. My plan went something like this:

1) commissioned ring with personal significance, since you couldn't buy love from a pretty case,

2) purposeful public venue,

3) someplace special, something I love, an experience that would never be the same again without her.

I do yoga for her, eat mostly vegetarian for her, even attend her events and galas as her 'flatmate' or 'friend' when her family are present…but I wasn't about to change something fundamental about myself. I'd never ask, never expect her to do that for me. Prerna came with me that day because I asked her to, because she knew it's something I love, because she loves me. And God knows I've done the same for her countless times…

And I know how much it meant to her.

_So what the hell_ , I found myself thinking.  _Do it here. Do it now..._

By that time I'd sort of noticed we'd drawn some fellow Tolkien fans—foreign and fucking rich, to judge by their anxious manner and expensive clothes. I'm not an armor expert, but that chainmail and that helm on the shorter one were ornate, and they didn't look like that cheap PVC stuff either. Those wigs? And that beard? Definitely human hair. Probably virgin, too. Undyed. I'd been doing this long enough to recognize hand-sewn, legitimate museum-replica pieces when I saw them.

Another couple... _Like us_. I figured if anyone would film it, it'd be them.

Beside me, Prerna made a tutting noise. She turned away.

"What's up?" She'd been a bit uncomfortable with the crowd, and the floor was definitely claustrophobic. After all, this wasn't exactly the polite, reserved academia she was used to.

"Did you see those guys?" She gestured her meticulously braided head to the cosplayers in question.

"Yeah?" I asked. "What about them?"

"They're  _staring at us_ ," she rushed, her voice taking that harsh tone I now recognized as nervousness. "And the taller one has been following us for quite a while."

When you're as small and helpless as Prerna is, everything seems like a threat. I glanced over her glowing hair and took a long look in their direction.

The Legolas-look-alike was eying me closely. The guy-who-would-be Gimli was leaning on his axe-head, craning his neck.

But I've been in NYC long enough, gone to Cons long enough to spot a creep or a bigot a mile away.

I laughed. Let her know it was okay. "Those? Those are just nerdy, socially awkward fanboys," I said. "They probably like our costumes and are way too weird to say so."

"The blonde one—oh, Lost-his-legs—he's been watching us since we walked onto the floor," she insisted.

[Lost-his-legs. I warned you she wasn't a Ringer.]

Definitely foreign, then. And definitely shy. And definitely—I suspected—wanting a picture. Our cosplay wasn't nearly as good as theirs, I remember thinking at the time, but it's always fun to take ensemble pics when the opportunity arises.

We were in the middle of the main mall, surrounded by milling fans, bored GF's, and flustered parents. There were Potterheads, Twihards, Whovians, Bronies, a pair of furries making out furiously—there were even two fellow Ringers, not to mention the wrinkly, fussing baby Yoda in a stroller and the helper-dog dressed up as Twilight Sparkle. We were smack dab in the middle of hustling humanity, endless excitement, experiencing the simultaneous thrill of anticipation and nostalgia of regret so I figured what the fuck. This was it. This was the moment.

I was at New York Comic Con in LotR cosplay with Prerna. Ours was the longest relationship I'd ever had. I'd never been happier. Would never be again if I ever had to come back here without her. Even with the glare from the windows, she'd never been more beautiful. I'd never been more in love with her than that very instant, and I've loved her more and more every second since.

The moment was  _now._

"Nah," I laughed. "They just want our picture. Come to think or it,  _I_ want our picture…" I managed to fish my iphone out of the surcoat's stiff pockets.

"You know how I feel about selfies," she reminded me with those petulant, oh-so-patient dark eyes.  _Oblivion is inevitable_ , she'd say.  _Stop memorializing life and just go live it._

"Yeah, well tough." I leaned in down next to her, no easy feat given our height difference. "Say cheese!"

"Bleu!" she said at the exactly same moment I blurted "provolone!"

And as usual, the photo was a blurry mess of squinty-eyed giggling. We tried taking several more to equally disastrous results. I'm not exactly photogenic even on my best days, and Prerna is just so damned adorably self-conscious in front of cameras that unless we're laughing it's impossible to get a genuine smile from either of us.

I scrolled through the pics, shading the screen. Prerna flushed in embarrassment.

"Oh, God. Promise me you'll delete those."

"Oh, definitely," I winked.

She grinned back shyly, that gap between her teeth so obvious and endearing. "At least promise not to tag me in any of them."

We locked pinkies with a laugh. Her hand, I noticed, was just as sweaty, just as shaky as mine…

It was the moment. Now or never.

"You know what, I'm a shit photographer," I told her.

"You're not a bad photographer," she amended slyly, looking up at me in that way she liked to say was 'coquettish'. "It's just a shame about the subject matter."

I put my gloved and gauntleted Gordorian knuckles into her spaulder playfully. "You know what? I'm going to go see if Lost-his-legs and Gim-bob over there can take a better picture."

[Gim-bob: n. (Pronounciation: Jim-bob.) Again,  _not_  a Ringer. Definitely  _not a Ringer_.]

She shut her eyes and shrugged her small shoulders in that humiliated, self-conscious apology she has. And just the faintest trace of blush rose on her soft cheeks. She looked—in that instant—just so goddamned happy. I had to listen to  _Catcher in the Rye_  with her once, and there was a line, somewhere towards the end. Afterwards, I looked it up and Holden Caulfield still said it better than I ever could:  _I was damn near bawling, I felt so damn happy, if you want to know the truth. I don't know why. It was just that she looked so damn nice…God, I wish you could've been there._

…Me too.

So then I walked away from her, not knowing the entirety of Middle-earth was about to come between us.

That's how this whole thing started, if you care about the how, when, where's and why's of these sort of things. I didn't fall through a wormhole, didn't take the TARDIS, didn't stumble across some magical portal or enchanted wardrobe*. I didn't take a much deserved trip to the English countryside or visit New Zealand with my best friend, didn't die or receive a terrible head injury…hell, I wasn't even looking for some man to whisk me away on some unexpected erotic adventure to fill my life with meaning or purpose [which appears to be the defacto impetus for nearly all the 'modern-maiden-in-Middle-earth' fics out there].

I'd cultivated a simple, honest life. Worked hard. Loved a good woman. Sure, more money would've been nice but we'd learned to be content with the things that we had. For the record, I was perfectly happy, thank you very much. And in that exact instant I was the happiest I'd ever been.

"Here," I switched to video mode and handed my iphone over awkwardly to a startled-looking Legolas. "It's the big moment for us. Do you think you could, you know, film it?"

* * *

*For those of you who don't know, a killer cosplay will get you stopped every five feet or less for pictures. I mean, that's great and all, sharing the fandom with people, but too often it's some creepy guy who just wants to mash your boob or "accidentally" slip his hand on your butt when you move in closer for the frame. Trust me, you want to get anything done on the floor it's better just to wear a T and jeans or something.

*The Catcher in the Rye, by J.D. Salinger (chapter 25). What, did you expect there to be APA or MLA style citations? That's really more of a Prerna sort of thing…

*Although have you heard the one where the Elf and the Dwarf come out of the closet? Yeah, there's no such thing as a tasteful gay joke: I would know [But  _come on_. Considering all the shit they put me through immediately afterwards anything that elicits a groan at their expense is just absolutely goddamned hilarious.].

 


	3. Many Meetings

And that's the way the world will end. Not with a bang, but with a near-whispered, awkward request of a LARPing stranger.

See, that's the thing about fanfiction: People tend to forget that just because English is the language LotR was published in doesn't make it fucking  _Westron._

" _Man_?" Legolas blinked, nearly dropping then catching my phone with graceful, determined precision.

Oh, damn. They were some of those LARPers. "Look, man," I groaned, pulling out the blue velvet ring box. "We're trying to have a moment here. Just do a girl a favor—"

The shorter, bristly one with the helm and rather dangerous looking axe* harrumphed and shook his head.

I sighed. I was in absolutely no mood to humor them and it'd been ages since I'd read the books in that much painstaking detail. "Look, no  _quetalyë i lamber eldarinwa_  okay?"

Blondie blinked.

Oh, Jesus. These guys would just not break fourth wall. They were some of  _those_  LARPers. "Okay, um,  _elen sila lúmenn' omentielvo_  or something," There. A star shines upon the hour of our meeting. A real Elvish greeting. Nice and proper. I pressed my iphone into his hand again. "Are we good now?"

Blondie just gaped at me, while his sidekick Ginger looked unimpressed.

…Then it hit me. Oh, shit. They were some of  _those LARPers._ "Oh for God's sakes, you're going to make me say it again in  _Sindarin—_?" I asked aghast. Of course their characters wouldn't speak Quenya, it'd become a ceremonial language just shortly after the Noldor landed in exile. There was such a thing as being a too hardcore with your fandoms. As well as being a complete asswipe about it…

" _Sindarinwa_?" he insisted, crystal eyes sharpening, focusing on my face with an intense, demanding clarity.

"Yes, Sindarin _,_ " I sighed back.

A meaningful look passed between the two of them.

"Fuck.  _Mae govannen_  already or something." I glanced over my shoulder and smiled back at Prerna to let her know everything was cool. She waved to me shyly, doing that slight sway on the spot dance of hers that let me know she was still intimidated by the pressing crowd. Being left alone in the depths of so many fandoms wasn't a healthy choice for a noob…

" _Pedil edhellen_?" Blondie asked me again, almost hopefully.

"No, no  _pedin edhellen_ ," I told him tersely.

Ginger elbowed him with a throaty chuckle.  _I told you so,_  that gesture seemed to say.

I was expecting some sort of ridiculous cultural greeting, you know, the stiff nod of and bow of a Dwarf and the customary 'at your service!', or that slight, right-arm-over–heart half bow that the Elves tended to favor—

Instead I got two lightning fast kisses on both cheeks and my head stuck in a vice-like grip, clasped between his hands (which Legolas would explain to me later was almost the Mirkwood version of 'hello' with a tight hug).

" _Ai!_   _Mae govennen, meldis!"_ he cried.

Oh. Godfuckingdamnit. They were some of  _THOSE LARPers._ [You know their kind, the thrice-dreaded, self-identifying "interactive literaturists."]

"Okay, yeah.  _Ma_ , I get it, okay?" I demanded breathlessly, disentangling myself with much effort. My ears were still ringing from the force of his grip, and I had half a mind to knee him in the balls for pulling a stunt like that. This wasn't fucking Europe where that sort of thing was socially acceptable. Here in the US we called it  _sexual assault._

He bowed his head, one hand over his heart. " _Im Legolas Thranduillion, aran-en-dawarwaith i-chuinar eryn lasgalen, ernil Ithilien, i buior en Aragorn, ion Arathorn i aran Ngondor hil-Isildur, a dîn merdil Faramir, ion Nenethor, a vess în Eowyn, Rhochundiel aglareb a roveleg, i Uilos, dagnir Angmar—"_

And what a goddamned smartass, introducing himself as Legolas when he's dressed up so obviously. "Haha. Smart. Clever. Really funny. I get it—your characters are Legolas and Gimli on their way to Valinor or something, and you got stranded at Comic Con somehow. But are you even listening to me? No  _pedin edhellen_!" I enunciated.

Valinor. They definitely both perked up at that.  _Goddamned method actors_ , I grumbled.

I glanced over my shoulder again, and sure enough, Prerna was eying us with a mingled look of suspicion and dread. I knew what she was thinking. Some guy had thrown eggs at us once, pulled a knife, told her every girl was down with the D. He said he wouldn't let us go until she kissed him or I gave him a blowjob, her choice. That was the day he learned that women in this city carry mace.

…and a hollowed out pen with a razor blade that I carry as a shiv on my person at all times. Three years in juvy and eighteen months in Bayview taught me as much. […it's also, Prerna has denied repeatedly, the reason she now keeps no less than three hard-covers in her purse at all times.]

"Fanatics!" I mouthed back to her with a big, dopey grin and two thumbs-up, acting much more cheerful than I felt.

Her lips pulled into that wavering smile I knew so well.

" _Le suilon!_ " Legolas wasn't done yet. " _E Gimli, elvellon, Fingyl, enfedyr o Maura i-berian i dagor das Sauron i'warth, bauglir, coth edhilliath, naugrim a hedain; ion Glóin, i'ovaethant Thórin Thandoron, ion Thrain, ion Thrór, hil-Dúrin, aran thrand a maethor beleg ennaugrim, halthor, i-chebior Ocrist, megil gódhellim en Gondolin, a tirith broniol him nartha nu-Erebor. Le suilam! "_

I gritted my teeth in frustration. I think I have permanent dental damage from our little encounter. " _Lasto beth lammen: Ech pedig edhellen_ ," I pointed at him. " _E pêd edhellen_ ," I gestured to the Gimli look-a-like. " _Ci pedigir edhellen_ ," I nodded to them both, then tapped my chest forcefully. " _Im. No. Pedin. Edhellen_."

They both nodded. Excitedly.

Oh, fuck.  _No_  and  _ma_  both meant yes in Sindarin*. I remembered vaguely from Gilraen's  _linnod_  you could construct a negative verb with the prefix u…. " _Û. Baw_." I began as they both started chattering away at once.

Oh, hell. Were they really going to play the lenition game on me? Prefixed vowel before a voiceless labial stop, so…

So goddamn the Celts and the Welsh and their fucked up philology fetish. It took me a minute, not helped by their nonstop jabbering, a lyrical melody punctuated abruptly by the jaw cracking consonants of the Dwarf. No matter what language they're speaking, it  _still_ sounds like Khuzdul.

" _Ú-bedin edhellen_!" I finally burst.

That shut them up. Blondie and Ginger looked at me, then traded looks with each other, utterly puzzled.

" _Ú-chenion. Nae! Gohenno! Arhenniad pairf lhaw nín_."

Worst. Comic Con. Ever. "Look, I'm tired, I'm hungry, I'm getting all gross and sweaty in this surcoat [how in the name of the fuck did Boromir manage to walk half of Middle-earth without every orc in Isengard* picking up on the stench?] I just want to propose and go out to dinner and my girlfriend's over there waiting, she thinks you're just going to take our picture and if you don't stop this shit she's totally going to figure our what's going on," I begged them both in one long breath. "So please for the love of fuck don't spoil this for us, okay?"

"… _man?_ " he asked weakly.

Maybe they really didn't speak English. Maybe they were using Sindarin as some sort of lingua franca, like Esperanto for Tolkien lovers. Maybe they were just complete assholes. Or really devoted Ringers. I didn't know. I suppose it would be pointless to ask here how likely it would be for someone to actually consider they were, you know, speaking to Legolas and Gimli if they were a sane and rational human being….but not only is this the internet, it's also the world's largest fan-fiction platform, both of which are almost exclusively dedicated to the disturbing phenomena of Legolas erotica. Because here not only is the answer "YES!", it's also accompanied by the uncomfortably public admission of your preference in Hobbit character body pillows. [They don't come in Tauriel. I checked.]

So no, I didn't guess I was speaking to Middle-earth's most squee-worthy, bone-able bachelor. I had no idea that I was about to be dragged kicking and screaming into an epic adventure that most girls would've killed for. All I knew was these assholes, wherever the fuck they were from, had to have seen a goddamned camera before.

"Look,  _ma,_  okay?" I put the phone on video record.

He took it gingerly. Now he understood.

[No, Legolas would tell me later. He came out of that conversation understanding two things: I both did  _and did not_  speak Elvish, and I was very, very adamant that he hold something in his hand. As at the time I appeared to be an increasingly pissed-off, gender-ambiguous Gondorian guard, so he thought best not to argue.]

…at least I thought.

" _Ma,"_ I adjusted the height of his arm to make sure both Prerna and I would be in frame. " _Mae_.  _Daro,_  okay?"

" _Dortham_ ," he affirmed.

"Yeah. Thanks, man," I sighed, feeling jitters rise up in my stomach and maybe a bit of vomit go up my throat as I clutched the velvet ring box in my pocket. "Wish me luck!"

I stumbled back through the crowd without a second thought, edging my way past three steampunk TARDIS dresses taking group selfies and a platoon of chubby LARPing stormtroopers attempting to march in unison. I got roped into taking a shot with Cersei, Danerys, Ygritte and Sansa, lovely group, really friendly, sounded Chicago in accent, and under the mistaken impression I was cosplaying as Ned Stark. Retrospective me wonders how things would have been had I asked them to film instead…

Finally I reached her, still swaying nervously on the spot, that green dress just so goddamn gorgeous and her smile so damned sincere.

"Well…" I sighed as her dark eyes focused on my face. "I'm back."

* * *

*How he ever managed to get that thing past security is completely beyond me. Perhaps he was easily overlooked in such a dense and flamboyant crowd? Legolas would later tell me it was probably because once a Dwarf is sufficiently grumpy military types and even us civilian pukes can pretty much deduce to just let the wookie win.

*So remember, Elves are like Ents, incredibly verbose and polite and take forever to fucking say anything. Sure, it sounds beautiful but there's a lot of extraneous information and poetic imagery thrown in. I mean, did you see how long it took just to say "Hi, I'm Legolas, this is my pal Gimli?"

A  _brief_  translation, for those of you who are interested in that sort of thing:

L: The Grey Elves? You speak Elvish? Ah! Well met, friend! I am Legolas, son of Thranduil, King of the forestfolk who live in Greenwood, Prince of Ithilien, allegiant of Aragorn, son of Arathorn, King of Gondor and Isildur's heir, and his stewards Farmir, son of Denethor, and his wife Eowyn, famous daughter of horselands exceedingly mighty, the Everwhite, slayer of Angmar—

L: I greet you! He is Gimli, Elf-friend, Lock-bearer, of the walkers of Frodo the halfling during the war against Sauron the betrayer, tyrant, enemy of Elves, Dwarves, and Men; son of Gloín who fought alongside Thórin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, heir of Dúrin, true king and mighty warrior of the Dwarves, Protector, keeper of Ocrist, sword of the Noldor of Gondolin, and abiding vigilance ever-faithful under Erebor. We greet you!

L: I do not understand. Alas! Forgive me! Your words are without sense to my ears.

And yeah. My Sindarin isn't perfect, even now. YOU try mutations and three forms of lenition that change with word order and parts of speech…

*Every orc in Isengard…Boromir joke. Too soon?

*' _No_ ' is a construction of 'may it be' or 'let it be', whereas ' _ma_ ' is more along the lines of 'good, excellent, right'. Yeah. You've got to be careful what online Elvish resources you use, or you'll end up sounding like an idiot. Both here on fanfiction. net and on the ever-increasingly small offchance that you actually meet a native speaker at Comic Con or end up on the backside of beyond in Oh Fuck, Mordor on accident. Hisweloke's Sindarin Dictionary is a good start for vocabulary, as is Pedin Edhellen for an introduction to grammar and anything by Mans Bjorkman or Helge Favskenger (try searching Ardalambion). David Salo is an excellent resource if you can afford his book. Basically you'll want something that quotes its sources for every entry, and avoid anything that just says "Elvish" since Quenya and Sindarin are two separate languages. The Arwen Undómiel site is an example of "internet Elvish" that works well enough for fanfiction purposes and the casual fangirl, but not really for you know, the actual conversationalist.

I mean, I'm mortified by my toddler-speak Sindarin as it is. My side of the conversation sounds like a drunken three year-old ordering Chinese food in a Spanish restaurant in Koreatown, Beleriand.

 


	4. Shortcut to Mushy

In PJ's RotK, there's a line that Frodo writes in the Red Book about Sam's frankly adorable off screen proposal and subsequent wedding to Rosie Cotton.  _It was the bravest thing he ever did,_  Elijah Wood's still boyish hand scrawls.

But that's the thing about PJ's vision, even when it deviates so infuriatingly at times—brings Elves to Helm's Deep, erases Dernhelm completely, or turns movie-Legolas into a bitchy, stalking, Edward Cullensque dickwad—it still manages to capture the tiniest of details and root you firmly down in Middle-earth _._ Because Jackson didn't pen those words, not Fran Walsh, not even Philippa Boyens. That exact phrase was crafted by none other than the Professor himself: " _Going on from there was the bravest thing he ever did,_ " he wrote of Bilbo Baggins descent alone into Erebor. " _The tremendous things that happened afterward were as nothing compared to it_."

That's how I feel about proposing to Prerna.

Still, after all this time? You ask.

…Always.

Slaying orcs, facing trolls, looking death square in the eye, it's nothing compared to baring your soul and asking someone to share your life with you.

 


	5. The Ring Goes South

 [Ugh.

There are some moments that you should just never capture on camera. How do I loathe thee? Let me count the ways:

1) You will constantly over-analyze everything you said and did, including your choice of cosplay because the great coat of Gondor doesn't have very flattering lines (and you kick yourself mentally for all time for not having had the brains to go as Brienne of Tarth),

2) Almost invariably the camera Elf will turn out to be a trans-dimensional space/time traveler(?) from another world/pre-history of our own/fictional universe (?) who won't be worth shit, and

3) it can be used against you in a court of law.

But given what happened afterwards, we're both still so glad I did.]

"Well, I'm back," I said.

Prerna blinked, still smiling, completely oblivious. Not a Ringer. Definitely not a Ringer. But after all of Samwise Gamgee's great adventures out there in the wide world there must have been many moments like this, where the love of his life just didn't understand. And—let's admit it—Rosie Cotton was a fucking  _champ_  for putting up with him after he ditched her for a year without warning.

I put an arm around her small shoulders. "Smile for the camera!"

"Ugh," she leaned into me with that awkward look on her face she always has when threatened with any sort of recording equipment. "I've been smiling all day."

"Just pretend you're having fun," I said out of the corner of my mouth.

"I've been doing that all day, too," she whined with a playful roll of her eyes.

I smiled. Tried not to lose my cool, but the hand on her shoulder was still shaking.

"And thanks. You know. You've been a doing a pretty good job acting like this doesn't suck. Because seriously, this has to have been one of the best days of my life."

She flushed and ducked her head. "Well, you know. It's something important to you. I don't get it, but I'm still happy for you, and I guess I'm happy you invited me even if it's really, really boring..."

"So would you come back with me?" I wheedled, one arm around her, the fingers of the other hand clutching the ring, and I couldn't quite shake the horrible, nagging fear I'd drop the stupid thing...or the urge to vom. Just a bit. "Every year? Because it wouldn't be as much fun without you."

"Eaurgh, Ida…" she groaned, and looked up at me with pathetic puppy eyes from the world's, derpiest, most adorable face ever. From this angle she was all dimples and bright sclera lost in a mess of auburn hair.

I took a deep breath and pulled out the ring. Prerna only cocked her head, confused.

I knelt. Realization dawned. Her soft hands just sort of drifted up to her face and stayed there. Her dark eyes were unblinking, just staring, staring right at me.

"Ohmygod…" she whispered.

People stopped. Elbows and fingers shushed friends and family. Around us, the hall went silent.

"So…" my voice choked up and I rolled my eyes, but the tears kept coming anyways. And I'd wanted to be so cool, damnit!

[Crying Gondorian with an engagement ring. Definitely cool.]

"Prerna Prashad, I know it's antiquated and old fashioned and probably anthropologically speaking pretty stupid and oblivion comes for us all in the end anyways but for lack of a better term or until one's invented and because I can't think of a more superlative way to say I love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you," I said in one long rush, "will you please marry me?"

Her hands were still clasped over her mouth and tears were pouring down her face. She didn't move. She didn't speak. She didn't fucking  _breathe_.

"Say something?" I sniffed after a long moment as all of Comic Con seemed to converge around us with bated breath.  _It needed a week's answer_ , Sam thought,  _or none…._

"Ohmygod…" she said again. Then she kissed me.

I wish I could say it was the best kiss ever, that her lips tasted sweet or her breath was like honey or some other sort of shit you always read in terrible romance stories where no one ever has pubic hair, body odor or halitosis. But the truth is her lips were a little bit dry and tasted soapy like lipstick and I nearly choked on the powery talc of her foundation and her breath stunk of that awful vegan chili con carne that we'd had for lunch and there was a lot of really thick, slick, moist snot and tears involved…

My knees were sore and the floor was hard and the angle was all wrong and my neck was twisted, but you know what? Fuck it. It was the best kiss ever.

There were people clapping and stamping and cheering all around us and for the first time in our short lives together we could really kiss in public and not feel awkward, embarrassed, or ashamed. We were just two girls kissing because we were happy and in love and about to get married. So thank God or Eru or the fucking Flying Spaghetti Monster for nerds and Comic Con where crying, cosplaying, interracial lesbian couples making out isn't even the weirdest thing you see all day and even then is NBD. Are Bronies kinda creepy? Yeah. But they're a bunch of dudes (and chicks) who just want to spread the message that you love what you love, don't judge. Whether it's someone of the same sex, opposite sex, or a television show about brightly colored ponies named Apple Jack or Rainbow Dash*, it doesn't matter, and we should all be free to express our likes and passions and hobbies without fear of being ostracized or damned.

We were giddy and dizzy when we finally broke apart, and when I opened my eyes again we were surrounded complete strangers cheering, taking pictures, who were all laughing—even _crying_ —with us.

"So was that a yes," I asked her as I stood, "or were you just letting me down gently—"

Prerna put her face in her hands again, flushing red, laughing and crying and smiling and shaking her head at her own stupidity. She was way too flustered and excited to actually say* anything coherent, but she held out her hand and sobbed as I slid the Silmaril ring on her finger. Eighteen carats of filigree rose gold and white platinum in two lacy, entwining trees and a simple, unfaceted moonstone. It took on a gorgeous, summery hue from the undertones of her brown skin, and looked absolutely goddamned beautiful.

I was just so goddamned happy. All my adult life I'd wanted to save a Silmaril, and marry a Luthien. I didn't have high expectations or ridiculous standards or a pipedream fantasy of a picture perfect future together, I knew there'd be ups and downs and bad days and sad days and days when we just drove each other fucking crazy. But I just wanted to live, love, laugh, cry, scream and settle down and live happily ever after to the end of our days. If there'd been a dark lord there at that moment, he wouldn't've stood a chance.

I didn't know what to say, how to tell her just how much she meant to me, how much I'd wanted her, how long I looked for a someone like her to share my life with but Prerna was looking up at me expectantly so I had to say something. My face had gone hot and my throat was all achey. "I love you," I finally choked, wiping snot down the back of my bracers.

That gapped smile grew between her wavering lips, awkward and sweet and witty all at once. Then she said those two words that every girl has always secretly, desperately wanted—no,  _needed_ —to hear at least once in her life in order to feel completely alive and whole and necessary in the universe:

"I know."

[Prerna, sweetie, shut up. You had me at Han Solo.]

* * *

*I uh, I don't have a favorite pony 'cause I don't watch that show, and I don't have a favorite pony 'cause I'm thirty-one years old. Hank Green?

Really?

Someone?

Anyone?

…Bueller? Don't tell me I'm the only nerdfighter on here! 

[And for all you Bronies out there, I'm just fucking with you: I like Spike.]

*To boldly split infinitives where Gene Roddenberry has before. Suck it, Henry Alford!

 


	6. A Warmish Welcome

So for all of you un-affianced noobs out there who aren't personally familiar with the whole experience, let me give you some pre-maritial advice that I wish had been given to me: Engagement rings need to come with a fucking Surgeon General's Warning.

FUCKING SURGEON GENERAL'S WARNING: side effects may include toxic giddiness and feelings of invincibility.

For as much as Prerna was the outsider here, within thirty seconds of my proposal it became apparent that she now owned the place. She was the pretty cosplaying girl who got engaged at Comic Con, the envy of all Envies, the liver-outer of all nerdy dreams and the pwner of land of Fandom. I think she may—just for a split second—have won the internet.

[Later as the many pics and GIFs went viral online, I think she actually  _did_.]

The shy girl I knew who had never willingly said a spontaneous word above a whisper to a stranger in all her life began giving orders like a drill instructor. "I just got engaged," she flung her phone into the gloved hand of a gender-bent Edward Elric who was still applauding us. "Take our picture!"

"O-okay," Edward said, stepping back to get us in frame.

"Take a couple!" Prerna asked/ordered, her supple arms squeezed so tight around my waist it was hard to breathe.

"Who are you and what have you done with Prerna Prashad?" I asked, as her smile threatened to rip through her face and tear the very fabric of spacetime itself. [TARDIS my ass, I think I know where the crack on Amy's wall came from.]

"Just shut up," she grinned, swinging on me like a small kid. "Shutupshutupshutupshutup and don't ruin it, Ida!"

"Me ruin it? You're the one dancing like she's about to piss her pants—"Her nut-brown skin turned that special shade of rose I loved so well. Shit. " _You did not_!"

"We had all that Limca for lunch and then there was that line for the bathroom and you surprised meeee…" she whined. "It's not my fault!"

I groaned. My Prerna: gorgeous, articulate, educated…and the weakest bladder this side of the Brooklyn Bridge. True love can be measured in many ways, but I've found by far the most accurate barometer is when you're willing to trek across town to a fancy office building to bring someone a change of underwear and a second skirt and never breathe a word of it to your mutual friends. "Damage assessment?"

"Tiny tinkle?"

"I guess we're stopping by the apartment on the way to dinner, then."

"Where are you taking me?"

"It's a surprise. Although I'm not so sure un-pottytrained kids are welcome—"

"Ida!"

"Um, hey, hate to interrupt, do you want your phone back?" The elder Elric brother [sister?] asked us awkwardly.

Prerna's face went a dusky crimson. It was one thing for us to tease—I mean, I saw her naked on a near daily basis—it was quite another for a complete stranger to know her little secret.

"Yeah, I'll take that," I said, as she was far too mortified to speak. "Thanks, pipsqueak!"

"Aargh! Who are you calling pipsqueak?" she roared, stamping her feet and flailing her arms like a giant squid of anger* for good measure. "You guys are absolutely adorable. Good luck!"

"Yeah, good luck!" Alphonse called from behind her. Pretty sure he was her bf, and pretty sure he was already furiously considering all the ways he could possibly one-up my proposal. Sorry, dude.

"Private joke?" Prerna asked me once they'd gone.

"Full Metal Alchemist."

"Don't know that one. Sorry."

"What? Then I've been seriously remiss in your anime education. That's my wedding present: you watch FMA and FMA:Brotherhood."

"Is it actually good," she asked me, "or is it more like  _Firefly_?" [The Uncomfortable Truths Well was right about that one. Damn you, Randall Munroe*!] Bless her, she's tried and tried, but she still can't watch that show. And to think I read all the way through  _Guns, Germs, and Steel_ for her!

I crossed my arms. "That was a loaded question."

She grinned. She knew about my weakness for everything Whedon.

"But no. It's a lot like Harry Potter. It goes into stuff about racism, religion, war and sociopolitical things…you'll really like it."

"Alright," she decided. "But then you'll have to wear a dress."

I'd figured as much. "Alright, your day. Whatever you want."

"Our day," she corrected me, face threatening to rip apart again.

"Yeah. Just…holy fuck," I breathed. "We're fucking getting married."

She wheeled on me in disbelief. "You're the one who's been planning it!"

"I know, but still! We're getting married."

"You thought I'd say no?" she put a small hand on my arm. "Ida—"

"I didn't think I'd ever get the balls to ask you," I finally admitted.

She laughed, her dark eyes squinting and sparkling in mirth. "I just got engaged.  _I'm planning my wedding!_  …And I'm standing in pee. I don't know whether to be really excited or just super grossed out."

"Er, both? I've got a second pair in my purse," I told her. "You want them?"

She took one fleeting look at the line for the restrooms, and shook her braided head. It'd be half an hour before she even got in the door. "Let's just get your phone and go home."

Shit. I'd almost forgotten. We made our way over hand in hand.

"Thanks guys!" I took my iphone from Legolas, still recording. "You don't know how much I appreciate this!"

Prerna nudged me shyly. "Ask them for a picture."

"A picture?"

"To remember them by?"

Oh, Prerna, Prerna…we weren't going to need a picture to remember these guys. And it would've made life so much easier if I'd just said no.

But she was Prerna Prashad, the Moon of my life, my Sun and my Stars, so I rolled my eyes. "Can we get a pic with you guys?"

They looked at me blankly, then to each other. I got the feeling Legs here was just as much the spokesperson for them as I was for us.

"What?" I sighed.

" _Meldis, man sad han_?" he asked me aside. " _Ech buia i-orn voen o Gondor_?"

I was so not in the mood to roleplay with them. Nothing wrong with a little role-play in the bedroom, boys, and if you want to go public that's your prerogative, but leave me well out of it. I didn't come to Comic Con looking for a foursome with Beauty and the Beast here.

" _Ma, Gondor_ , okay?" I chewed my tongue. "And if you're a good little Elf-boy I'll show you the way to Valinor, alright?" His ears pricked up and his sharp eyes squinted.

[…Scott always said my goddamned mouth would get me in trouble some day.]

"Okay. Shove in, ginger. Blondie, a little bit lower," I adjusted them around Prerna. Poor girl, even Gimli here dwarfed her. She looked like such a little Hobbit next to the two of them, albeit one playing Elf dress-up. Gimli was grumpy. Legolas looked perplexed. Prerna flitted her fingers shyly.

"—aaand snap!"

Not bad. But Blondie here was completely shadowed by the hood of his cloak.

"Good enough?" I asked, showing Prerna the pic.

"One more?" she begged me. "And here—" she jumped up on tippy-toes and her short, child's fingers found his hood.

…That's all it took. The Legobomb hit.

[Shit, sorry. This is fanfiction. Let's do this thing properly. Ahem:

'So then verily didst the sunlight shine down upon the sex god Legolas, and verily still dist the gathered throng admire the golden-elf with his long, flowing, shimmery golden hair that sparkled in the sunlight like Edward Cullen's abs but even by my troth much more shinier and gold-like. Yea, verily didst they swoon over him and his two Elf-eyes the color of glittering violet sapphires which glittered glitteringly like sapphire orbs from his pale, perfect, beautiful, Elfish face. And they were glad, yea, and heart-stricken also, for never before had they seen anything so graceful or beautiful or totally freaking amazing as Orlando Bloom* in a dress with their waking, hormonal eyes and they fell instantly and irrevocably in love (until the next major movie franchise starring a hot boy would appear).'

And all together now: blah blah blah et cetera, vomit vomit fuck*.]

There was blood in the water. And the sharks began to circle. "Oh my God you guys,  _it's Orlando Bloom!_ "

" _Orlando Bloom?_  Where—?!"

"Leggie!"

"Tauriel and Legolas, they're like my OTP!"

"Legolas and Gimli are my OTP for life!"

" _LegoLAAAAAAAAS_ —!"

That's when the mob struck. A murder* of tweenage girls crashed against us in squealing waves while splooshing themselves. It got claustrophobic and cramped. Fucking Fast. I felt Prerna tense as she clung to my coat to keep from getting carried off by the crowd. And there in that stampede of squealing girls, suddenly it hit me: how had they not been spotted already? How they hell had the best Legolas and Gimli cosplayers I had ever seen walked the floor of NYC Comic Con without getting clobbered by a rabid army of fangirls—?

Insert more fucktastic hysterical shrieking here. [That um, that sounded a lot less dirty in my head.]

The guy was like a reverse fucking  _veela._  [Shit. That  _also_ sounded a lot less dirty in my head…]

A reverse fucking veela now wielding a long, hard [Godfuckingdamnit, Ida! Really—?!] white knife that looked suspiciously un-plastic. Not that it stopped them. Those guys had seriously underestimated the power of Orlando Bloom on ovaries in large groups.

How the hell had they gone so unnoticed? Gimli I could get, as the dude was actually pretty short, and the dull metallics and drab, earthen colors of his outfit didn't stand out in such a colorful crowd. Perhaps no one but the most desperate, middle-aged John Rhys-Davies fan would've squeed, but someone would have at least stopped him to get the name of his armorer. Up close I could tell that those metal links were real, and must've weighed a ton. Good on Gramps here for wearing them—he probably got a day's worth of exercise just standing.

…But Legolas? You and I both know with cringe-worthy detail the obsession the fandom has for him. I'm not into guys, but yeah, as far as they go he had the whole golden rectangle going on, eerily symmetric, with delicate, rather effeminate features, the sort of eternally young androgynous guy who always plays the Evil!bad guy type rather than the creepy, cookie-cutter male model grotesqueness who gets cast in a love triangle opposite Conan the He-man Barbarian. [Think more Loki, Daryl or Joffrey than the Edward Cullen, Rick Grimes or HBO's craptastic Daario Naharis types.] And he wasn't some short, slight actor like Lando cast in a part and made to look taller by cinematography, either. This dude was intimidatingly tall, and I'm used to being a couple inches taller than most of the guys in the room. There was no fucking way The Legs here could've crossed the floor without being seen, but it's like no one had even noticed them until he'd taken off his hood—

Stupid, nagging sensation in the back of my brain. What if they really were—? I immediately dismissed the thought. Those were woolen Lothlorien cloaks woven in the Stansborough factory in New Zealand, and possessed no actual magical properties whatsoever (besides causing the money in your bank account to disappear.) This was real life, not  _Doctor Who_ or _The Deathly Hallows_  or something where they contained Time Lord technology with a perception filter or a true spell of invisibility*.

The girls screamed and fussed and clutched his cloak and grabbed fistfuls of his hair. There was also a disturbing amount of bow-rubbing going on (not a euphemism, get your mind out of the gutter!). Prerna clung to me, looking mortified, whereas Legolas seemed discomfited…and by discomfited I mean less "Ai! ai! A Balrog! A Balrog is come!" than that glare he shot Eowyn in  _The Two Towers_  movie after she dropped the "Because they love you" bomb on Aragorn at Helm's Deep*. Gimli, however, was positively glowing with all the attention, clapping his hands, smoothing his beard, face flushed nearly as red as the still-auburn streaks in his graying braids. Clearly the dude was having the time of his life. I guess if I was that old and still screwing the object of that many teenage girls' affections, I'd be a little bit smug too.  _Sorry ladies_ , that grizzled, gleeful face seemed to say _, this one's all mine._

We got stopped for obligatory pictures, of course. I mean, we couldn't've moved anyways what with how tightly packed we were. Everyone's phones and tablets were out, and everyone wanted to congratulate us/get their pic with Legolas and Gimli, and then people started yelling for Tauriel and Legolas to pose. [Fucking shippers.]I thought she'd be too nervous or embarrassed, but there was something different, something so carefree and happy about her that day and she just took it all in stride.

"Come on, lover boy!" She said, sounding braver than she looked, and she yanked his hair like a kid might jerk a puppy's leash. "We might as well get this over with…" She was really hamming it up with him, and the crowd totally egged her on, but for all her kissy faces and pouty poses her eyes were always winking at me. For once she was the center of attention, not her academic work or some display she'd put together, and for once she didn't have to worry about how goofy or awkward people thought she was. She'd never see any of these people again, didn't care what they thought and they loved her for it. It was strangely liberating and definitely empowering for her, I'll say that much.

I was pretty proud of her for coming out of her shell like that.

…and we might have ruined his Comic Con.

[But as it turns out later that running into some the few people in NYC who could converse with him is what got them home, the matter is entirely irrelevant. And—at least in my opinion—it still leaves them greatly in our debt.]

Gimli watched the whole process stoically with his thick arms resting on the flat of his axe, although there was a grumpy smile hidden under his beard and I definitely heard him chuckle more than once at Legolas' expense.

"Does that happen often?" I asked him, feeling sick. All those vapid, pre-teen dreams of being a career celebrity that we all had when we were kids now seemed a million times more disgusting. Who would  _want_  that sort of attention—?"You'd think he'd be used to it by now." Then again, he wasn't just some guy in a Legolas cosplay, he was some guy dressed in a Legolas costume pretending  _to be Legolas_  at Comic Con and responding  _as Legolas would_  to…well, Comic Con. And the results were rather entertaining if you could get past the part where the poor guy looked like he really might throw up and/or murder someone.

The Gim-man only shrugged. Of course not, I remembered. One of  _those_  LARPers.

Prerna finally let go, and ran over breathlessly.

"Have fun?" I asked.

"Strangely, yeah," she admitted, her eyes bright and her face flushed from excitement and running. "But it's really starting to give me the creeps. It's like that zombie show you used to watch."

"Not zombies, Prer," I corrected. "Walkers."

She rolled her eyes and adjusted her weight to one hip, that green dress swaying around her short, shapely legs. "And there's a difference?"

"It's an AU—sorry, alternate universe—where the word zombie doesn't exist."

"So it's a fictional universe where Haiti didn't exist?" she asked.

"No...just the word."

"So the Haitian culture never had the concept, or it just never got translated to English?" she pressed.

"No…the word just doesn't exist."

"So it just a lexicon gap, or do they not even have the concept of Zombies ever anywhere in folklore or mythology?"

"I don't know…the show really doesn't focus on that aspect—"

"Then that's ridiculous," she tutted patently. "You can't just have a show about Zombies but NOT Zombies and then not talk about it! I mean, in that one book you gave me—the one with the Smiley face guy? At least they replace superhero comics with Pirates and stuff. It's a logical explanation and a plausible replacement for something that's a cultural or anthropological staple as a result of the 20th century appearance of world wars, Nuremberg, and weapons of mass destruction."

"You're talking about  _Watchmen_?" I'd forgotten I'd made her read it last year for my birthday.

She frowned, creases wrinkling her crisp, smooth forehead. "The one with the Yellow cover and the naked blue guy?"

"Oh, God, Prer, you don't not like The Walking Dead not because it's too nerdy, it's because it's  _not nerdy enough_  for you," I realized, putting my arms around her to bring her close. "My girlfriend, the anthropology über-nerd." Who, btw, is still the only person I've met to suggest that the realism of the show suffers from a lack of goddamned bicycles. Quick, manueverable, soundless, and easily maintained. Rick rides a fucking horse, and Daryl has a motorcycle that never runs out of goddamned gas, for fuck's sake. It's not that the show doesn't recognize the importance of mounted transportation in the post-apocalyptic world, it just never takes it to the logical conclusion. [The cardinal sin of scifi.]

That small, coquettish grin twisted over her cheekbones as she sidled up to me. "That's fiancée to you."

" _Ú-awartho nin an i-'lamhoth_ ," Legolas appeared so fast I'd swear he Apparated.

I sighed. Guy would not take a hint. "Buzzkill McKillington."

" _Im Legolas_ ," he corrected me politely.

"No shit, Sherlock."

"Oh, hey! Thanks! Sorry about all that," Prerna shouted over the screaming of the fangirls, gesturing with her auburn head as her hands were still in mine. "I'm Prerna—"

" _Im Prerna_ ," he amended for her.

"Oh, your name is Prerna, too?" she quipped, batting her eyes innocently. I gaped at her like Fred Weasley when Percy had resigned mid-battle of Hogwarts. My Prerna, tell a  _joke—_?

[…that was actually funny? Not to mention a whole lot sarcastic and a little bit rude? And here I thought she couldn't possibly get any hotter.]

"… _man?"_ he turned to me blankly. " _Nae! Gohenno nin! Ú-chenion_."

"Er _…Im Ida, e Prerna, ech Legolas_?" I tried.

He bowed his head. " _Ai,_   _mae govannen, Prerna-en-Rhûn_!"

"I wouldn't," I warned him as he stooped to greet her. I wasn't absolutely sure at the time, but I'm pretty sure he just said something racist. "You kiss her I will slap you, and you'll be stuck here snogging fangirls for another week."

Like that stopped him. Guy was as fast as a pouncing cat. He held her face in his hands and said gently: " _Trî ennorath rheviannen di-menel benn-elen an ngoroth, ach adberthathon rhevio ennas an glinthad i-nîf lîn bein_."

"Um…Ida?" she squeaked.

"Yeah, yeah, 'hello', we get it," I pulled her away and shoved him. "This one's taken. Go hit on someone else."

"Oh, oh! Kiss me!" an Arwen begged him. She couldn't've been more than fourteen….

"No, kiss me!"

"Me next!"

" _Avo drenaro nin, leitho nin!"_ he said, shaking Arwen and Co. off his cloak and turning back to us. " _Im Legolas Thranduillion, aran-en-dawarwaith_ —"

I groaned. Even in the face of fangirlageddon, this dude would just not let it go.

"— _ernil Ithilien(Baw!), i buior en Aragorn (Ha ú-vaer!), ion Arathorn (ego!), i-aran Ngondor a hil-Isildur(Avo!), a dîn merdil Faramir(Faeg!), ion Nenethor, a vess dîn Heowyn(Uin maer!), Rhochundiel aglareb a roveleg(Avo drenaro nin!), i-Uilos, dagnir Angmar(Leitho nin!)—"_ Poor guy had to stop every second syllable to shoo them off. Even Prerna couldn't keep a straight face. Personally, I had half a mind to just ditch them there and get home. Poor Prer needed a change of clothes, and I had dinner reservations at a nice little Indian restaurant in Times Square. At this point I just wanted off my feet, a glass of plum wine to relax and a quiet, private diner together to celebrate the rest of our lives together. I wasn't a real fan when we first started dating, but she'd grown up on Indian food—or, as she so eloquently puts it,  _food—_ so I've learned to appreciate if not yet cook it.

But LARPing Legs and Gimli were doing their best to stick with us, and Prerna was in such a happy mood and she was far too polite to tell them to beat it. So we ended up with an entourage of Korean Sailor Senshi all shoving things at him to sign, every girl ever dressed as Arwen, at least three more Tauriel's and a group of Gamers who I'm pretty sure had mistaken him for Link. By that time we'd gotten out of the convention center and back out on the crowded sidewalks. It was a crisp October afternoon in Manhattan, too warm for coats yet but still cold enough to really bite. So between the cold and the distance and people getting the hint from his body language and scowling that he didn't want to be bothered, only the stragglers were left. And at Comic Con, they really only come in three kinds: 1) the extremely socially awkward, most-likely-has-Asperger's sort that annoy the shit out of you but you can't help but feel sorry for, 2) the trying desperately to sell you something type or 3) the just want to bone your brains out portable STI factory variety. And so to no one's great surprise…

"Ooh! You speak Elvish?" Mary Sue of fucking SueTown, USA tittered while stroking his chest. "So how do you say 'I love you' in Elvish?"

[You know the type: gum-smacking, corn-fed, push-up peek-a-boobs, not enough brains, in a Catwoman cosplay that looked suspiciously both three sizes too small and far too much like Powergirl to have been coincidental. I don't have a thing against boobs, in fact I appreciate them muuuuuch more than the average girl*, but there's a time and a place. If your shirt is so tight or low cut that I can see (read: awkwardly gape at) your pasties in public while furiously fantasizing about fucking, it's probably time to reconsider. I know a lot of my hate for so-called "promiscuous girls" comes from ridiculous ingrained social stigmas like purity vs. sluttiness, an angry, awkward adolescence where they never gave that sort of attention to me, and now that I'm steady with someone it's a lot of internalized anger at myself for taking second glances or having those feelings when my own fucking fiancée is standing right next to me. But yeah, everyone's thinking it, I'm just saying it: thundercunt.]

" _Nae_ ,  _leitho nin_ ," Legolas lamented, politely removing her hand and giving her a long-suffering stare. I'd say I felt sorry for him, but he  _had_ kissed us both without permission. " _Ú-annathal hîdh enni_?"

"Wow. That's so hot!" She purred, not taking the hint. "I can show you how to say 'Amin mela lle!' in sign language." She went lower.

God that still makes me so fucking furious. Any girl would kick a guy in the nuts over something like that, but for some stupid reason female-on-male sexual harassment is considered culturally acceptable. Although apparently not so to LARPing fanboys. Legs pulled the whole 'wax on, wax off' thing on her in one fluid motion and before I could even blink he had that knifepoint at her throat with a look that just begged her to give him a motherfucking reason*.

"Oh, fuck!" I jumped back and in front of Prerna at the same time. Tits here just shit herself.

"Hey, wait a second—!" Prerna gasped, rushing forward while swinging her purse*.

" _No dîn!_ " Legs snarled at her, both his words and my outstretched arms stopping her in her tracks. But Tits got the worst of it. " _Dravathon gaim lîn ae adberthal han! Daug! Ego!_ " Yeah, and in the land of Mordor where the shadows lie and don't you fucking forget it. Picture Gandalf at the Council of Elrond reciting the Ringverse and you've pretty much got it. I didn't know what he said at the time, but the message was still fairly clear: have knife, will use*.

Mary Sue backed up, visibly shaken. "Y-your friend is really rude!"

" _A pedig_  fucking Grelvish, bitch," I said, still clutching Prerna.

"W-what did you say?" her face and chest went blotchy and puce.

"I said 'and you speak fucking Grelvish, bitch."

"Ida," Prerna remonstrated.

"And I think 'my friend' here just wants to be left alone. Next time you touch anybody like that, ask first. Now beat it, Ditz-tits, or I'll look the other way when he does decide to slice you." The rehab and juvy I did for possession and selling. My little prison stint was because I got tried as an adult for assaulting some corrections officer for copping a feel on one of my best friends when I was seventeen.

…Yeah. Not sorry.

"Ida!" Prerna said in protest.

Ditz-tits scrammed.

"And you,  _ma Ech_ , asshole!" I thwacked him with her purse [LotR, HPatGoF, and aDwD], and by thwacked I mean he dodged it like a fucking Olympic figure skater. But it got his attention. "That thing's a replica, it's not a fucking toy! You could've killed her! The hell were you thinking—!" The fuck was he thinking, and how the hell did he get it past security? And why the hell out of all the people I could've met at Comic Con did I just happen to run into the one who my Parole Officer would've sent my ass straight back to the slammer for?

Legs sheathed the knife behind his back fluidly and flung his hood up again in a distinctly unprincely fluster. I was still convinced he was just some (increasingly and alarmingly) crazy guy in a costume, and it was the closest he came to breaking character. He leveled a look at me that said  _do you see what I have to deal with?_ " _Rhaug drastol. Ú-'erin hídh mi i-had hen. I-ngoroth! Amman? Ech henia i-gael hen 'oeol? Man hai?"_

"Yeah, yeah, she was a handsy bitch," I conceded. Served him right, though. There are certain characters you just can't cosplay as, not if you don't want to attract unwanted sexual attention.

[Shit. I just 'look what she's wearing'-ed him, didn't I?]

"That's no excuse!" Prerna chimed, glaring at us both with her small hands on her soft hips. "You could've hurt her!"

Could've, but didn't. And I've pepper-sprayed guys for less. Still…I'd been in enough real fights by then to know posturing when I saw it. And either this guy wasn't kidding or he's the goddamned best method actor I'd ever met. Scott joined the Marines to pay for college, so I'd seen his 'take no shit' face before. And Legs' here was spot on.

" _Ha ú-idher_ ," Gimli shook his head grimly. " _Ha ú-vaer_."

" _Ach 'imli—"_

But Gimli was unimpressed, and I got the feeling he was very much a 'let's have his head and be done with it' sort of influence. He bumped Legs forward with the handle of his great axe. " _Boe!"_ he ordered. " _Hi!"_

Legolas knelt, head bowed, one hand over his heart. " _Dihenno úgarth nin, meldis. Nae! I-'ûr Gimli ion Glóin noen. Gohenno nin, ú-anirannen eitho_."

Prerna looked back and forth between us, confused. "Are they…Welsh? And is that even legal?" she continued to eye the sheath, quiver and longbow on his back with unease.

"Worse," I shook my head, giving her back the purse. "LARPers." Forged in the fires of Mount Doom, apparently. Pulling a  _real knife_  on a girl in public like that? He's lucky she didn't have any mace. Or a boyfriend. Or there were no police or security guards watching. Either way, I was liking our new friends less and less.

"Rise, less an asshole," I told him, motioning for him to stand.

Yeah, no. One of  _THOSE_  LARPers, remember? He clasped and kissed my outstretched hand.

"…fucking seriously?" I raised an eyebrow and set my jaw.

Legolas gulped, and released my hand very, very delicately. " _Gohenno nin_?" he looked over at Gimli for guidance, and got a bristly, bearded shrug.

"I think chivalry's dead because you killed it," Prerna opined. "Will you just let him be sorry already?"

"You know what, I like one-liner Prerna. I might just keep her."

"No returns, refunds or exchanges!" she said happily. "Well, um, thanks guys. I guess this is goodbye. Sorry I can't say it in Elvish!"

"How many times, Prer? How many times?  _Elvish is not a language!_ " I shook my head in mock disgust. "That does it. Give me the ring back."

She pursed her clever lips, playing with the Big! Shiny! Expensive! symbol of our eternal love and affection currently residing on her fourth finger. "…but it's my Precious?"

I kissed her. Not the 'we're going to live happily ever after together' sort of kiss, but more of the 'God I can't wait to fuck you' variety.

Legolas did NOT approve. " _Ú-chenion._ " he uttered. " _E benn_?"

" _E bess,"_ Gimli shrugged.

" _Tiro, Gimli. E benn."_

" _Û e benn,"_ Gimli grumbled _. "Hi edain."_

Legs just frowned. _"Hai edain."_

"So you guys aren't real big into the whole PDA thing, huh?" I asked him as Prerna flushed and straightened her hair. Then again, if Legs and Gimli here had started making out, NYC would've probably exploded with the force of a million fangirls having simultaneous orgasms.

"Thanks so much," Prerna gushed. "Really! Bye, Lost-his-legs, bye, Gim-bob!"

"Yeah. Thanks guys," I said with less enthusiasm. "Er… _namarië_?" Damn, Quenya again. They were die-hard LARPing fanboys, sure, and would-be-virgins if it weren't for the whole, you know, OTP vibe they had going on. But they had filmed our proposal, so besides taking their obsessive role-playing fetishism far too seriously than could be considered sane or healthy or legal and being far too liberal/literal with their kiss giving, how bad could they really be?

[Yeah. That's almost as bad as "what could possibly go wrong?", or "this was going to be the best Christmas Walford has ever had!". I've since learned not to ask questions like that. I mean, Legolas and Gimli? In real life? Every Ringer or fangirl's dream, right? To which I say, girls, have you ever actually  _seen_ those movies—?

DoS made Legolas look like a chubby, stalking douchebag* but they did get one thing down pat: he's an absolutely fucking ruthless killing machine with a deep-seated prejudice against anything he perceives as evil with a license to kill order strapped to his sniper bow and a hard on for decapitations. And that sort of eye-for-an-eye MegaCity One style executioner justice just doesn't go over so well in modern Middle-earth. Trust me. The guy's like fucking Adrian Veidt and Ollie Queen had a baby and let Rorshack raise him (And you thought Sherlock was a high functioning sociopath?).*

Let me put it like this: of all the people to bump into from a book, the very last race you want to meet up with are J.R.R. Tolkien's Elves. Hot as motherfucking hell, sure. But they're all so fucking fey they'll murder you without a thought  _and they'll laugh and sing as they do it_. His Dwarves aren't much better, but at least you'll hear them coming. They might be underwhelming, un-adventurous, and more than a little bit plump but when it comes to babysitting your favorite fictional characters, you want a goddamned  _Hobbit._ ]

But Erstwhile Ida didn't know any of these things. She remained blissfully unaware of all the bloodshed that Dumb and Dumberass might cause, so she figured the least she could do was be nice and say something Sindarin. " _No vaer_!"

" _Cuio vaer_ ,  _meldir_ ," he bowed to us both, and I thought we might have even gotten an 'at your service' in what was probably Neo-Westron or something from Gimli (definitely not enough consonants to be Khuzdul, and besides, a fanboy of that caliber would know better than to speak the sacred tongue of the Dwarves in front of a non-Dwarf). But they didn't seem too happy about it. I got the uncomfortable feeling that they wanted to follow us, and I felt their eyes on us for several blocks.

Prerna didn't seem to notice.

"Are you on facebook already?" I teased her as she stumbled into me again. I'd already had to save her from at least three curbs and a jogging stroller. She'd never really learned to text while walking.

"Shut up," she said, her dark eyes never leaving her phone. She hit 'send.' "…aaand it's official," she skipped over and grabbed my hand.

I stopped. "You changed your relationship status?"

"And posted pics."

Shit. Outting yourself to your family on facebook—? My voice was tight. "Prer…is that going to be a problem?"

"Not for me it isn't," she said firmly.

It was just us, just her and I. There'd be upsets and troubles and turbulence and bumps, and we were standing on the fragile skin of a swiftly tilting planet hurtling around our dying star lost in the echoes of a long-forgotten explosion. In all the universe, in all of time, there was only one Prerna Prashad, and she was mine. I didn't want to lose her, didn't want to see her lose contact with the people who loved and raised her who I owed everything about my current happiness to, but as Rose Tyler said:  _everyone leaves home in the end_.

Prerna made her choice long ago. And she chose to be with me.

"Okay," I nodded. We were happy, excited, giddy and newly-engaged. If she didn't want to discuss it just yet, I couldn't see a reason to spoil the mood.

And let's be honest: for as good as she looked in that Tauriel cosplay, I really couldn't wait to get her out of it.

* * *

*French the llama that's a strange expression. Now eat five sheets of toilet paper while discussing the political situation in Nepal.

*If you don't know who Randall Munroe or xkcd is then you've lost some serious nerd credentials. I might have to stop speaking to you.

*All hail the Mighty Bill Amend, and yea, has he prophesized correctly.

*You sang that last line. Admit it.

*What? It's a valid English collective. And it's the first thing that pops into my mind when confronted with a crowd of brainless, selfie-obsessed, angsty adolescents. Newly discovered hormones and a lack of frontal lobe development are an ugly thing. Trust me: I've been there, done that, served time.

*…OR IS IT—? Gandalf would later explain the exact metaphysics of this whole fucking fiasco to me as "Wibbly Wobbly, Timey Wimey."

[Then again, his first words were also "Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Twe—no, wait, sorry, that's Dumbledore." As far as Wizened-Old-Man-Mentor Quest tropes go, the guy is pretty fucking mental. I think it's down in the job description: Creator of epic fantasy seeking one Guide for Hero's Quest. Must provide own Red Shirt and magical means of transport. Regeneration always a plus. Pre-requisites include magic staff and bat-shittingly insane sense of humor. Women and Minorities need not apply (Asian kung fu masters and Magical Negroes on a case-by-case basis only).]

*Da fuq, PJ? That's one of the last fucking lines she ever says to him before she rides off to Gondor for Death and Glory. That's  _Dernhelm's_ origin story, and the movies shit all over it. I'd say they TDKR'd her, but I guess it's more like TDKR Dernhelm'd Catwoman. And Talia. And Rachel.

… _NOLAN!_

*I um, I like big tits and I cannot lie.

*For you movieverse people, think "A scout!" mixed with "Do not think I would not kill you, Dwarf!" minus the whole "flames of war are upon y…( _gurgle_ )" only directed at that type of vapid teenybopping, pushy twenty-something who gives all girls a bad name.

*You see why I love her? Dude pulls a knife and I all want to do is put some distance between us and protect what's mine. Prerna just charges in like a fucking pink sparkly unicorn without a thought for herself. It's not because she's brave or anything, she just has a "saving people thing", as Hermione put it. If he'd done the same to her she'd be petrified.

*A certain pointy-eared Elvish princeling would like me to point out that in fact he would never utter a phrase so impolite or unpoetic. His exact words were:  _I will hew your hands if you dare it again!_   _Monster! Begone!_ Only think more Thee's and Thine's. He's the only guy I know who makes sure to use the proper pronouns when telling someone to kindly fuck off or I'll kill you. I mean, he wouldn't want to be  _rude_  about it.

[Yes, yes, I know that thou, thee, thy, and thine are actually the informal English pronouns. But in historical fiction and in canon Rohan and all fan fiction they're treated as archaic and therefore very formal. So I'm honoring Tolkien tradition here by being blatantly incorrect. Suck it, Trebek.]

*…JACKSON! Character development, my scrawny white ass. In FotR, Legolas befriends Gimli because it was the last request Gandalf made of him, and he saw firsthand the sorrow of what happens when Dwarves and Elves fight each other rather than the real enemy. He's blindfolded in Lothlórien not due to the stubborn neck of Gimli but by his own pride, and well he comes to repent it. Which is more fucking character development, my dead ex-girlfriend (who I used to stalk and pity-party and abandoned my post over, btw) fell in love with a Dwarf, so now I'm not a fucking Dwarf racist Party Prince (except for the first full half of FotR…) or a fucking Maia died for whom to me the grief is still too near? What, we really have to fridge a woman just for  _that_ —? WTFuck, Phillippa and Fran. WTFuck.

[…Which reminds me:

Knock, knock.

Who's there?

To.

To who?

_To WHOM!_

Every. Goddamned. Time.]

*What, you thought this fic was going to be rated T for my pornographic Legomance tell all? Yeah, no. 'Less wise and more perilous' doesn't even  _begin_  to cut it.

Translations, and such, for those of you interested in that sort of thing:

L: Friend, what place is this? Do you pledge allegiance to the white tree of Gondor?

Me: Yes, Gondor.

L: Do not abandon me to the clamoring horde. I am Legolas. I am Prerna. What? Alas! Forgive me! I do not understand.

Me: I [am] Ida, she [is] Prerna, you [are] Legolas. [I might've misled you when I told you it was toddler speak. Newborn Elves have better grammar and bigger vocabularies, damnit.]

L: Hail and well met, Prerna of the East! Through Middle-earth have I wandered under starless heavens and deadly horrors, yet I would dare again to wander there for the glimpsing of thy fair face. [Don't get too excited. He's an Elf and a Prince. He talks like that to fucking everyone. My brother Scott's certainly not a homophobe, but he's sworn to pummel his Elf-ass if he ever uses the words fair, strong, or brave or any variation or synonym thereupon about him again. He's also—unsurprisingly—not a big fan of the face kissing.

…Nessa and I think it's fucking hilarious.]

L: Cease harassing me, let go of me! I am Legolas Thranduil's son, King of the forest-folk…prince of Ithilien (Don't!), the allegiant of Aragorn (It is not good!), son of Arathorn (Begone!) the king of Gondor and Isildur's heir (Stop!), a his stewards Faramir (It is bad!), son of Denethor, and his wife Eowyn (It is not well!), daughter of horselands famous and beyond mighty (Stop harassing me!), the Everwhite, Agmar's bane (Let me go!)

L: Alas, release me. Wilst thou not give me peace? I will hew thine hands if thou darest it again. Monster! Be ye gone! Harassing demons. I have no peace in this place. The horror! Why? Do you know this terrifying illness? What is it?

G: It was unwise. It was Unwell.

L: But Gimli—!

G: It is necessary! Now!

L: Forgive my trespass, friend. Alas! The council of Gimli son of Gloin is wise. Forgive me, I did not wish to insult. Forgive me? I do not understand. Is he a man?

G: She is a woman.

L: Look, Gimli. He is a man.

G: No she is not a man, they (feminine) are Men.

L: No, they (neutral) are Men.

Me: Be well!

L: Live well, friend!

 


	7. Insider Information

You know that episode of Doctor Who  _Silence in the Library/Forest of the Dead?_  [If not, I'll wait. There's Netflix, YouTube or the Pirate Bay for that.] When Donna Noble—oh shit. Sorry.

… _Spoilers*_.

Don't worry. Spoiler-free zone here. But Donna starts to notice that time  _isn't happening_. That her life is far too sequential. That every line of dialogue, every scene change, every cut that we're so used to seeing in movies and film becomes real to her. Her reality is fragmented, and moments are simultaneous. She never breaks fourth wall, never delivers a Francis Underwood* style monologue to us through the camera, but it's still one of the best storytelling moments I've ever seen on screen. Donna Noble's character succeeds in getting us to question the fundamental way we tell—and perceive—visual stories.

Haven't you ever wondered if androids dream of electric sheep? The characters in our visual media, when and where do they go between scenes? Do they really cease to exist? Is there non-existence for them, or is their perception of time simultaneous? Or do they simply "Just. Stop."? When you put a book down, does the story end on that page, or does it keep going without you? Do these characters have full lives like ours that they live out, and do we only see the arbitrarily important bits and pieces, or are they only dependent projections of our own imaginations, nothing more?

[…Sorry to wax all existential on you. But I'm having a  _literal_ metaphysical crisis at the moment.]

After THE INCIDENT I began reading fanfic again in a desperate attempt to understand what the fuck was happening to me. I couldn't be the only one, right? In all of time and space, this couldn't've just happened to some junkie janitor from the Bronx. There had to be some sort of precedent, some protocol to follow. There were all these stories, these "Girl falls into Middle-earth" tales I kept hearing about, and surely, surely one of them must've been through something like this before. I mean, the Professor's bff writes a story about the Pevensie children falling "through a wardrobe/painting/train station" into another world…and then the Legs and Gimli show up  _here_? It couldn't be completely fucking coincidental.

I went online. I dug. I did my research. I found a whole fucking archive. I was hoping for answers. A miracle. A Deus ex Machina or a fucking Giant Eagle…but what I really needed was information  _a la_  Isaac Asimov's classic  _Pate de Foie Gra_ : "Now the fanfic is done. I've read it, I approve, and I urge you all not to believe it. Please don't.  Only-

"Any ideas?"

But the results were pretty depressing. No how-to-guide's detailing how to get home or where to take your Valinor-bound visitors in the meantime. No crash-courses in Westron. No logical explanations of dimension jumping or time-travel, or disguised classified documents detailing the use of the Hadron Collider to mend spacetime for fictional universes. No Dwarf Etiquette Manuals _,_  no  _Traditional Cuisines of Durin's Heirs and How to Prepare Them_ , no  _How to Train Your Elf_  or  _Cultural Misunderstandings: It's Only Murder If They're Immortal and Other Fun Fallacies Among the Fair Folk._ Even The Official Fanfiction University of Middle-earth had nothing but humorous anecdotes. In short, I found the entire website Pretty. Fucking. Useless.

But a pattern did begin to emerge. Whether through a computer, a head-injury, trip to New Zealand or a night out drinking, somehow the walls between the worlds seem to converge around an OC. It's like alien abduction, where a bunch of crazies seek each other our on line all telling different yet colluded versions of the same story. Yeah. Goddamned creepy, that's what it is.

_Stare too long into the depths of fanfic_ , wrote misscam,  _and the depths of fanfic stare back into you*._

Was I insane—?

…was I tripping?

"Oswin, we have a problem."

So I had to wonder—does it seem real to them? Those characters unceremoniously dumped into Middle-earth for their Long Expected Party, whose real life we never see, whose family and friends never miss them. All those jobless, loveless, bored and lonely women who fall instantly in love with the first male character they meet, who swear abruptly then swoon before the first chapter is even over—ask yourself, does it seem real to them?

Because it does to me.

_Does it look real to you, Mary Sue?_  I asked her.  _Where you are right now. Does it seem real?_

_It is real,_ she said.

_The time, Mary Sue._  I told her.  _You said Middle-earth, and suddenly we're in the Shire. The time, Mary Sue. Where—where—did it all go to?_

_Mind you,_ she said, _sometimes it feels like no time at all…_

[ _Meanwhile in a parallel universe…_

_"It's a dream, Harry," the social worker Hagrid told him. " You dreamed up Hogwarts for yourself after the horrific abuse you suffered at the Dursley's because the truth was just too terrible. The unexplained and strange injuries you kept suffering, the wilder and wilder tales of your escapades to get them…the loving family who accepted you, the Quidditch Cup, the inescapable destiny…it was a dream, Harry. Nothing more."_

_"Then it is a good dream," said Harry, and went back to sleep._

_All was well._ ]

I thought it was a dream. I hoped it was a dream. I fucking begged, prayed, pleaded, cursed for it not to be real. I wanted to be insane. Wanted to throw myself off the top of the Winter Quay and wake up in a world where Prerna was here and there were no Weeping Angels, Amoral Elves, or Aging Dwarves to torment me.

I am Ida Anderson.

…I am Human. This is not a fanfic.

* * *

*Too soon?

*House of Cards: Netflix's Game of Thrones AU written by Petyr Baelish, about Petyr Baelish, for Petyr Baelish.

*Or Friedrich Nietzsche. I've heard it both ways.

 


	8. Ainulindalë

There are some moments that just stick in your head forever. Like during the cut scenes of  _The Last of Us: Left Behind_ , watching Ellie and Riley play together in the abandoned mall, hoping the whole fucking time that Naughty Dog would just take it one step further, let these two kids have some space, find each other, just a hint, just an inkling, just something to let us know that maybe in a parallel universe of our dreams that there'd be a video game about two teens dancing around the issue of maybe just maybe being for the first time in love. Brushing hands. Awkward eye contact. Say something. Just  _anything—_

…and then they kiss.

It's short. Sweet. Unexpected. Awkward and abrupt.  _I'm sorry—_  Ellie gasps.

_For what?_ Riley wonders.

For what indeed. I was twenty-seven stories above Manhatten, glancing out the windows into a glorious sunset, staining the city an autumn red and crisp gold, light scintillating off a thousand facets of skyscrapers directly into my soul. I teared up. Shielded my face. In the corner of my eye I could see Prerna naked, stark sunlight drenching her supple skin, and with every smooth movement, every effortless glide she turned a new shade of Sunkist copper.

I was Tilíon. She was Arien. The sight might blind me, sear my eyes, but I couldn't look away. And even if it might stain me forever it was worth it just to know I had burned with her, if only once, if only for this instant.

She was Finduilas, I was Túrin Turambar: the bloodstained, ill-fated. I built a bridge to Nargothrond, and all roads led to her.


	9. A Short Rest Alternative: Commentary!

So here's the thing about fanfiction disclaimers*: They suck.

[Disclaimer: this disclaimer sucks.]

Contrary to popular "internet" belief, they are NOT a form of legal protection against lawsuits. Not contrary to popular opinion, they are as annoying as hell. It's a fanfiction platform. Perhaps THE WORLD'S LARGEST FANFICTION platform. No shit we don't own it.

So why the fuck do we bother?

Tradition?

Nostalgia?

…Misinformation?

Who the hell knows. I'd love for there to be some sort of poll out there to get that sort of info and help spread it among our fandoms and peers. But I digress. We're here to talk about the disclaimers themselves.

[Which, as you now know, are about as useful as nipples on a breastplate. Or a restrictive, lightly-armored corset that leaves the neck, shoulders, and chest exposed…that and unbound, waist-length hair on a female warrior (I mean, really, Ann Maskrey, the immortal, ages-old Elves still haven't figured out how to make supportive, comfortable, aesthetically pleasing UNDERgarments? But conveniently have a technology boom in Sportswear for Women in the intervening 80 years before Frodo reaches Rivendell? Really? #continuity, #Ngila Dickson)].

Disclaimers are legally useless. They are aesthetically annoying, especially when you waste valuable summary space and interest space at the top of a first chapter. The only—I repeat—only purpose a fanfiction disclaimer can possible serve is brand recognition. And if your brand is boring, blasé, or contains common catchphrases or the thrice-dreaded three letter abomination 'lol', then you need to fire your PR director.

[Or, to quote a brave little hobbit whom we all admire, "I don't know half of you half as well as I should like; and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."]

The moral of the story is: Don't use a disclaimer.

The corollary of that moral is: If you insist on using a disclaimer, use your disclaimer to say something interesting. Stand out.

Meanwhile, in a parallel universe…

You know nothing, John Ronald Reuel Tolkien—Ygritte

All your base are belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.

J.R.R. Tolkien fa-la-la-lally, down in the valley—Lindir

ph'nglui mglw'nafh J.R.R. Tolkien wgah'nagl fhtagn—Cthulhu

Elen sila J.R.R. Tolkien omentielvo—Frodo Baggins

Melenkurion abatha! Duroc minas mill J.R.R. Tolkien—Theomach

The enemy's gate is Tolkien—Ender Wiggin

Any sufficiently advanced J. R.R. Tolkien is indistinguishable from magic—Arthur C. Clarke

One Tolkien to rule them all—Celebrindor

Blood for the blood god! Skulls for J. R.R. Tolkien!—Khome

To seek out new life, and J.R.R. Tolkien—Spock

Yakka foob mog. Grug pubbawup zink wattoom gazork. Chumble spuzz J. R.R. Tolkien—Calvin

The Road Not Tolkien—Robert Frost

Determination, Destination, and J.R.R. Tolkien—Wilkie Twycross

Sorry, the part of the annoying, legally useless disclaimer is already Tolkien—Donkey

Perfect speed is being Tolkien—Jonathan Livingtston Seagull

Wingardium J.R.R. Tolkien—Ron Weasley

"Water," the Dutchman said. "Well, and J.R.R. Tolkien"—Peter van Houten

There are some who call him…Tolkien?—Tim the Enchanter

Ygolotuat a osla. Remiamlcsid a si siht—Mirror of Erised

The first rule of fanfic club is you do not talk about J.R.R. Tolkien—Tyler Durden

…now that's what I'm Tolkien about!

So at this point you might be wondering, "Wait, is she breaking fourth wall here, or merely leaning on it?"

["Is this real?" I once asked Gandalf. "Or is it all just happening inside my head?"]

"Is this thing a Meta fic, or a 'This Is Reality' trope?"

["It is said 'do not meddle in the affairs of wizards'," he told me wisely. "For they are subtle and quick to forget the topic at hand."]

Followed quickly by:"Wait…is she insane-?"

["That's not an answer," I argued.

"Of course it is," said Gandalf. "It's just not an answer to the question you asked. What do they teach in schools these days?"]

…The answer, of course, is probably yes and; not only but also; neither, nor; either, or; but then; yet still; and finally, 42.

These are the memoirs of the Starship Ida Anderson, told in the style of recursive fan fiction. Ida would like to thank the Academy (she would also like you to know she's always wanted to say that). In the interest of giving credit where credit is due, many of these above disclaimers were derived from the witty and wonderful Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality, by far the best version of the Potterverse ever written [no offense and all, J.K., but Eliezer Yudkowsky does it better…and more logically consistent.].

* * *

 

*Disclaimer: J.R.R. Tolkien and his Estate owns The Legendarium. I'm now being held prisoner by the fanon's best-beloved psychotic Elf and senile Dwarf Bromance/OTP. Please for the love of fuck tell him to take them back!


	10. The Watcher in the Watershed

[And now back to our regularly scheduled programming. Sorry. It's my first time writing something like an autobiography/diary/memoir sort of shit, and my mind just sort of wanders. I'd get an editor, but come on. Who besides the fucking internet would believe me?]

Afterwards she took a shower. I just shucked some jeans on and pulled a Triforce T down over my head. Smeared on a bit of lipstick and dabbed in some mascara. I pulled out my phone—figured my mom out in Minneanapolis at least ought to hear it straight from me before finding out on facebook of all places that we'd gotten engaged. I'd call Scott, too, but it just wasn't his sort of thing. He and Vanessa had been together seven years now, and he always said love was way more than just a shitty piece of paper.

It's not like he wouldn't celebrate with us…he just wouldn't  _care._

I dialed. Paced the floor.

The line picked up. "Mom?" I asked.

"What's wrong?" I was greeted with Dan's gravelly, disapproving tone instead. Guy always sounded as happy as the fucking lovechild of Marvin the Paranoid Android and Albi the Racist Dragon*.

"Shit," I said in awkward surprise. "I thought this was mom's phone—"

"Marlene can't talk right now."

Bullshit. He saw the number and decided to screen me first. I'd been clean for thirty-seven months straight* by then, but once the druggie step-daughter, always the druggie step-daughter.

And before you go thinking Mary Angst Sue or Tragic Backstory or Insert Family Drama or Fucking Tropetown, Tropecainia*, let me preface that: Dan's a good guy. Good but gruff, especially with me. And I couldn't blame him—Dan might've acted like an asshole to me on more than one occasion, but he was the good sort of asshole—a classhole*. He only did it because he wanted to protect my mom…even and especially from me if necessary. I was her little girl, and she did what most parents did and looked the other way and enabled me. I lied. I stole. I got in a shit ton of trouble. I hurt a bunch of people, and most of all her. Dan came into our lives during a time when I couldn't be trusted, and those first impressions are hard to shake. They'd met at a NA support group about eleven years ago, him for a sleaze-bag of a soon-to-be-ex-wife…and well, you can guess whose court-mandated participation brought my mother in.

So he's all right for the step-dad your mom starts seeing when you're already in your mid teens. It was a tough time in all our lives, and we never really had a chance to get along or be a family. But I'm happy for them, happy for her—between me in and out of the system and Scott over in Afghanistan she needed a guy like Dan in her life. The only thing you've really got to know about Dan is he's much better husband than he is a dad. He doesn't cheat, keeps a steady job and brings home flowers and shit and buys her jewelry every holiday, so for a guy you don't know or like very well who's fucking your mother, there's not much more you can ask than that.

[See that's the thing about fanfiction: your hero's family is either already dead, killed off early, or only serves as some sort of emotional backdrop to make the hero more likable (Bard the Bowman's wife? Fridged. Kids? Adorable ornamentation to give our antihero a soul.). But that's the thing: the family is dead, abusive, or perfect. There's not one single goddamned story like real life, where people have pasts and tastes and likes and dislikes or skeletons that just won't stay in the fucking closet. That's the difference between fiction and real life: just like sex always ends with glorious music and orgasm but never that awkward, well-what-the-fuck-now sort of feeling, or those cringe-worthy walks of shame, in fiction we never see consequences and/or everyone always learns their lesson and rides off into the sunset. But fiction isn't real, because in real life the estranging, abusive, angry one isn't always the parent, ex-lover or antagonist. Sometimes it's the protagonist. Sometimes it's  _you_.]

"What do you want, kiddo?" Dan asked in an eternally long-suffering sigh.

"I just want to talk to Marlene."

"You never call."

"I don't want anything," I collapsed into a rather shabby looking Toad beanbag, the fingers of my left hand toying absently with the beans of stuffing pressing through the seams. [I'd had the thing since I was nineteen, and just couldn't let it go.] "Promise. I won't beg you guys for money and I don't need you to post bond or anything. I just want to talk to her."

"Anything you have to say to her you can say to me."

"Godfuckingdamnit, Dan," I rolled onto my stomach in annoyance, kicking the air. "Is it too much to imagine I've just gotten engaged and I just wanted my own mother to be the first person to know?"

"Don't take that tone, kiddo,"  _it's for you,_  I heard him say as an aside.

"Ida?" my mom's voice rang. "Honey, what's wrong?"

[For once in my life, nothing! For the last time in my life, nothing!

… _Thanks, Legs_.]

"Don't panic," I prefaced. "but you might need to sit down."

Have you ever seen  _Chicken Run_? …Yeah. I could hear the feathers fly. My mom launched into a panicked monologue that even Christopher Nolan couldn't derail*.

"—and I can call Scott sweetie and he can be there in less than half and hour I promise we'll get through this no matter what it takes and I can fly up this weekend and—"

"MOM!" I finally shouted. "Would. You. Just. LISTEN!"

There was silence on the other end.

"I'm calling because I. Got. Engaged."

"Y-you—" she stammered, unable to process.

[Picture the swirling beach ball of death on your Macbook.]

"Y-you—"

"I—" I prompted her.

"You're getting married?"

"Yes, yes, I know it's unexpected life-changing news—"

"You're getting married? Dan, Ida's getting married!" That last half was squealed shrilly at two million decibels and right into the receiver.

My head was ringing. "…to—?" she was prompting when I could hear again and she was making intelligible sentences instead of random spurts of "my baby girl!"s and "all grown up!"s and hysterical sobbing and "you're going to be a bride!"s and "I'm so proud of you"s and "oh, Ida!"s.

"Prerna, mom," I said in exasperation. "Remember, you met her—"

Split second pause. "Is that the adorable little brown girl you brought out for Christmas?" she asked brightly.

"Mother!" I shot straight up. That's my mom. More inadvertently racist than J.R.R. Tolkien himself.

I could hear her flush through the phone line. "Well I only met her the once and I couldn't really remember if she was Puerto Rican or Pakistani—"

"Indian," I groaned, with a furtive glance to the bathroom door. "Prerna's  _Indian_." [With three living Hindu grandparents who aren't big fans of the whole Pakistan thing, apparently*.] She's better than Scott, at least. He still calls everything South of the Rio Grand Mexico. In his mind, there's North America (Canada), America (us), Mexico, and South Mexico. He used to be serious, now I'm pretty sure he does it just to fuck with me and Vanessa. She gets absolutely furious about his non-PC*.

"Hate to bother you or stress you out," I apologized. "But it's up on facebook and I wanted you to hear it from me first, alright?"

"Oh, Ida!" she said again. "I'm so excited for you! I can get on Pinterest and Etsy—"

"Gotta go, mom," I lied to her. I love my mom, but I really can't stand her for long lengths of time, and I've never been really good at the whole talk gushy, girlish nonsense over the phone thing, and I was NOT about to start planning a wedding less than six hours post-proposal or via social media. A girl's got to have some standards. "We're getting ready to head out to dinner."

"I love you, sweetie!"

"I love you, too—"

"—and here's Dan!" Rick-rolled, by my own mother now less!

"Congratulations, kiddo," he told me. "You two let us know when the date is, you hear?"

"You're so not walking me down the aisle," I warned him, more rudely than I would have liked. Damnit, Ida!  
"Didn't figure," he grunted. "Take care."

"Yeah," I affirmed, trying to sound cheery. "You too."

My phone rang the second the call dropped. It startled the shit out of me, and sent the phone flying from my fingers, cracking the case and skidding to rest under the couch.

Shit. Our engagement video and the majority of today's pics were on there.  _Oh no you don't_ , I told the universe, jamming my hand under the couch and through a year's worth of dust bunnies.  _Not today._  I also resolved to back it up on the hard drive, iCloud, and a USB in the fireproof safe where Prerna kept her birth certificate and passport the second I found it.

Luckily it'd fallen face-up, and with a bit of creative maneuvering I was able to see the lit screen. Gotcha.

I withdrew my hand, and was met with the following:

incoming call

PETER PARKER

THE DAILY BUGLE

At that point, most people would've probably questioned their sanity. I just questioned my taste in friends (not to mention the adequacy of my password*) and picked up.

"Fuck you," Pedro "Peter Parker" Morales told me.

"Yep."

"You two got engaged and didn't even tell me!"

"Chill the fuck out, Yenta*," I laughed. "There's no way in hell I could've told you, Spiderman. You couldn't keep a secret if it danced naked in front of you wearing Dobby's tea-cozy." His transparency also makes him an absolutely terrible wingman.

"I had to find out through facebook— _facebook_!" he ranted in his rich baritone voice. "This is the fucking twenty-teens, the least you could've done was put it someplace socially relevant like Tumblr!" here he paused. "…She  _does_  know those pics are public, right?"

"Yep."

"…is that a problem?"

"Not yet."

"Is that  _going to be_  a problem?"

Outing yourself to your family on facebook? Problem doesn't even  _begin_  to cover it. "Oh, fuck yes," I told him.

"Oookay," Spiderman said in awkward awe. "Alrighty then."

"Yep."

"Is that all you're going to say?"

"Yep."

"Alright, alright. I can take a hint. Spidey out."

"DFTBA."

"You keep using that initialism. I don't think it means what you think it means," and with that he was gone. Dude always had to have the last word…

I snapped the iphone back into its crap plastic case. I still the my old 3s, by the way. I kept meaning to update, but things like ComicCon and Prerna's ring kept coming up, and I've always hated spending money on myself if it wasn't for an experience of some sort. But the screen read already past seven, so I knew we were cutting it close to losing our table if we stayed much longer. I rapped my knuckles against the grain of the bathroom door and tried to barge in, but Prerna just squealed and shoved her weight against it.

Now that was amusing. "What are you doing in there—masturbating?"

There was an indignant " _Ida_!" followed by the clatter of her curlers falling off the sink.

I laughed and leaned against the door. "Seriously, how long can it take for a girl to get dressed?"

"I want to look nice!"

"You always look nice." No lie. She had that almost Elven ability to roll out of bed looking immaculate. Not that she'd believe you. Girl was the poster child of the lipstick lesbian.

"You always say that!"

"And I always mean it," I promised her. "Five minutes?"

"Ten minutes!" she wheedled, and I could smell hairspray and the tang of her fresh fingernail polish.

"Alright. Ten, and then I'm going to dinner without you!" Yeah, right. My threats were worthless. Truth be told she'd had me around her little finger from the day we met, and now that she had my ring around her fourth, things were only going to intensify.

Ten minutes. Plenty of time. I wandered to the office/spare bedroom ["my bedroom" when her parents came to visit] and woke up the slumbering desktop. Plugged a USB cord into my phone, and started downloading.

_Yes, iTunes you moron, I want to keep the pictures._

_No, I don't want to install any software updates._

I logged into iCloud and sent the photographic evidences from iphoto permanently into the data cloud, then fished for the key to the safe.

…and done. The drive was tucked safety back in it's Smaug-proof home, the video was now saved on Apple's servers somewhere in the soul of the internet, and I had copies on my phone and the desktop [Prerna disapproves of laptops and tablets. Says they're "bad for your posture" and they "disrupt social interactions integral to society". My Xbox and the Super Nintendo are stored out in the living room with the tv, yeah, but the poor computer remains firmly ostracized.] It might seem like overkill, but what do you do when you have The One Ring, or the irreplaceable Pearl of Great Price*? You backup the shit out of that thing so you'll always have a copy.

I heard the bathroom door open, and saw her streak to the bedroom in nothing but her towel.

"Two minutes!" I called. Yeah, like that was going to happen…

"Ten minutes!"

"You said that eight minutes ago!" I sighed, creating a separate folder for Comic Con and Engagement pics. I'm not the 'entire desktop has to be alphabetically ordered" sort of girl, but Prerna appreciates not having to deal with my mess. I had the time. Figured what the hell, I'd save her some work.

"Ten minutes!"

"Fine. Ten minutes!"

…Ten minutes was beginning to become our Always*.

Spiderman's Klingon cosplay, Kelly and Clark as Luke and Leia, the  _Doctor Who_  panel, me getting my picture with a kickass Captain Jack Harkness and Gwen Cooper couple, a few dozen close-ups of a bunch of girls wearing MLP tails (the sort of photographic journalism my friendly neighborhood Spiderman was famous for. I would just fucking murder him.) random people in cosplay, random people in cosplay…this was going to take fucking forever. I had to have at least thousand pictures of the weekend on this thing. And there! Our first selfie of the morning, her half-way into her Tauriel dress, hair already elaborately braided. I scrolled more slowly now—

…Legolas. Standing in front of the MCU Stage 2 display, almost lost against the dark blue/grey backdrop.

That couldn't be right. I squinted, leaned closer into the screen to examine this mysterious, hooded figure that my eyes insisted was our cosplaying prince from this afternoon. All I could make out was the bottom of his chin, the very point of his slender nose, and the tips of his iridescent blond hair, but he was there, alright. Call it premonition, call it tachyons, call it converging time lines or déjà vu, but it terrified me. I felt a bit sick.

I scrolled on, and that fucking creep just kept following my camera. Legolas standing shadowed by the Hulk poster, that cloak now a vibrant, violent green. Legolas and Gimli beneath the Black Widow montage, silver-black as twilight. Their twin silhouettes against the harsh golds and reds of the Iron man display, like two falling leaves.

There they were again, waiting for us outside of the Women in Comics panel, the fabric of the cloaks a muted, dirty white like the wall behind them, fading into the rich patterns of the carpet below.

The cloaks had changed color.

…Fuck. The cloaks had changed color.

Holy fucking fuck of Fucktown, Fuckania their fucking cloaks had fucking changed color—*!

Surrounded by the mill of a couple thousand fans pressing to enter and/or leave, and not a single person saw them or stopped them. Not a face was turned.

It was like they'd been invisible. No one had seen them. Not even  _me_.

I kept clicking, mesmerized. I just couldn't look away. Sometimes the two of them, sometimes just Legolas' taller frame, but in every picture and in every angle, there was a shadow and a threat.  _Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?_  I heard Benedict Cumberbatch's dulcet tones with just a trace of terrifying sneer.  _The invisible man with the invisible knife…_

I slid my leather-bound hardcover copy of  _the Red Book of Westmarch_ * from the bookshelf, frantically flipping to Moria and beyond. I passed the pages with Legolas singing  _the Lay of Nimrodel_  with sudden dread.

At last, the  _lembas_  bread. My eyes scanned the page. There, in Tolkien's—or Frodo's—own words:

_For each they had provided a hood and cloak, made according to his size…it was hard to say of what colour they were: grey with the hue of twilight under the trees they seemed to be; and yet if they were moved, or set in another light, they were green as shadowed leaves, or brown as fallow fields by night, dusk-silver as water under the stars…_

" _Are these magic cloaks?" asked Pippin, looking at them with wonder._

" _But they should serve you well…you will find them a great aid in keeping out the sight of unfriendly eyes, whether you walk among the stones or the trees."_

That's when I realized the patent absurdity of it all. I had— _we_  had—a potential set of homicidal stalkers on our hands and my first instinct was to look for the exact wording of an obscure passage in a fictional book published July 24, 1954.  _That's it, girl_ , my brain told me.  _One trip too many. I told you when you were fifteen that the drugs would fuck you up…_

I shook my head. Resumed my work with the book still open across my lap. I scrolled through all of them, feeling sick. My suspicions were right. The Legs was in every single goddamned picture…and he was staring straight at me.

Well, fuck.

* * *

*Guys, guys…Figwit/Lindir has a band. New Zealand's fourth most popular guitar-based digi-bongo acapella-rap-funk-comedy folk duo, or whatever the fuck they're calling themselves these days. [And am I the only one having a complete nerdgasm that Lindir means 'singer' in Sindarin?]

*It would've been five years. But Lareina and I had a messy, mid-holidays break-up and I needed a fix and needed it bad. I felt so damned shitty after three days of shooting up I called Scott to come take my ass straight back to rehab.

And that's the thing about being the addict little sister. You call a guy, shit all over his Christmas, make him book his ass back up here from Florida and he's all "happy you called me". You can't hate a guy who'd die [or kill] for you or who'd drop everything in his life at any time for anything you needed, but is it too much to ask him to be just a little bit pissed or angry? …Ever? No matter how old you get, you'll always be a fucking child.

*Yeah, I'm looking at you, Professor. Let's count: Frodo Baggins: parents died in tragic boating accident. Samwise Gamgee: mother never mentioned. Bilbo Baggins: both parents dead by the time the events of  _The Hobbit_  took place. Aragorn: father died when he was two, dick of a foster dad failed to mention he was heir of Númeanor until age twenty, mother "lost the will to live [wtfuck, Padme, I mean Gilraen?]". Arwen: dad fails to mention adopted fosterbrother whose destiny is to reunite the sundered lines of the half-Elven, dooms her to death; mother gets waylaid by orcs, poisoned, and sails off to Valinor. Faramir and Boromir: deranged dad, mother dead. Éomer and Éowyn: parents died in their childhood, uncle was absent father figure, husband dresses her in dead mother's dresses (um, yuck?). Theodred: who the fuck was his mother? Gimli: father leaves on important quest during developmental years, mother never mentioned. Legolas: mother never mentioned, dad is questionably insane insular redneck racist and rumored member of Nazi party. Elrond and Elros: father sails off to find gramma and grandpa, mother is attacked by angry Noldorin and chucks herself off of cliff. Eldarion: only child; dad commits suicide, mom commits suicide within the same year. Tuor: father dies gloriously in battle, mom chucks him to the Elves and then…wait for it!... commits suicide. And don't get me fucking started on Galadriel or the Children of Húrin.

I'm telling you, the dysfunctional family was this guy's modus operandi. Then again, he had a shit childhood and early adult life himself.

*xkcd, I'm telling you.

*What is with that man and terrible train metaphors?  _Batman Begins_  and  _Inception?_  Don't let that man anywhere near an  _Anna Karenina_  adaptation. [And yes. Of course it's one of Prerna's favorite books. Did you think high Russian literature was a past time of  _mine_ —? Although personally, any excuse to see Kiera Knightley mostly naked is a good excuse to see Kiera Knightley mostly naked. ]

*It's filed in my mind palace under 'Sore Subjects: Avoid at All Costs'.

*insert terrible Erectile Dysfunction joke here. NPC? Get it?

…nevermind.

*SHER was probably an obvious choice, in hindsight. Cumberbatch is to the twenty-teens what poor Legsie was to the twenty-aughts.

*Spiderman'd been trying to set me up since he met me through his sister Emilia. His constant interference usually went something like "Hate your hair. Not likely. Yikes. Yikes. Yikes. Let me guess, you have a great personality." My exact reaction to seeing his new facebook friend Prerna Prashad was 'Freida Pinto is great,  _who is that_?'

Yeah. He kept the text. I have the terrible suspicion it'll find its way into his best man speech…

*You like Silmarils? Want some more? SMASH IT WITH A HAMMER! …sorry, sorry. I've seen  _The Emperor's New Groove_  at least a thousand times too many, the only Disney movie, btw, to star a pregnant or married woman as the love interest or have the fat, bumbling sidekick be the romantic lead. Or have the moral of the story be something other than "true romantic heterosexual love conquers all!" We need more mainstream stories like that. Thank God for  _Mulan_ and  _Frozen_.

*Ah. See I was actually thinking tfios, but the whole Snape/Lily might work here too.

*Well that certainly demonstrates the diversity of the word. If his Elf eyes could stomach the ridiculously slow slide projection that is our standard 24 or even 48 fps, I think Legolas would've enjoyed that one. But  _Boondock Saints_  or no, television not only confuses the shit out of him it also gives him headaches.

…what, you thought immortality didn't have any side effects? Just because the species is humanoid doesn't mean their biology is anything close to human. You'd think you'd learn that from  _Doctor Who_  or  _Star Trek: DS9_ (all hail the mighty Roddenberry, Creator of Mpreg). The guy's like a fucking Time Lord.

*Of course I call it that. Couldn't resist.

 


	11. A Bayesian Conspiracy Unmasked

The first rule of bad decision-making within a story is you do not talk about your suspicions. The second rule of bad decision-making within a story is you DO NOT TALK about your suspicions. The third rule of bad decision-making within a story is you win or you die.

…wait, sorry, that's Fight Club*.

I'd read and watched enough shitty fiction by then to know that the worst thing you could possibly do when you a) suspect you might be slowly going insane or b) suspect the weapon-wielding guys that took your proposal video just hours ago at Comic Con might indeed be some sort of literal axe(and my bow!) wielding murderers would be to  _not_  talk to a psychiatrist, the police, or at least your fucking fiancée.

"Two minutes!" I called to Prer again, and to no one's great surprise, I got another playful shout of 'ten minutes!' in return.

Ten minutes. Good.

…ten minutes was all I needed.

Alright, Ida. Think, bitch, think. What in your crazy, short life might've prepared you for the good ol' classic insanity/bad trip/potential axe-murdering rapist conundrum? Do you worry Prerna needlessly and scare her? On the night you were supposed to be celebrating and when she'd already exposed herself and felt so very vulnerable [and yes, yes I did let personal/romantic issues trump rationality, like every damn hero before me. Fuck it.]?

Scott told me once the thing that made a good soldier is essentially the same reason Anakin Skywalker made a shitty Jedi: you had to separate yourself emotionally from the situation in order to survive or you were just as likely to be murdered by the Sand People rather than massacre them, sweet-ass Jedi skills or no.  _Assess the situation_ ,  _Ida_ , I heard Scott's voice. _Focus. What's the worst that could happen?_

Prerna. Me. Getting hurt. Getting killed.

_What poses the most immediate danger?_

Legolas and Gimli, whoever the fuck they were. Or weren't. Or really are…

_What could kill you?_

Legolas and Gimli, and their weapons. And me being so goddamned worried that I was wrong and that I'd be laughed at or labeled unstable or…

I sighed, ran my fingers through my short hair, and literally head-desked. I lay there for nearly a minute, staring morosely up at collage/altar of nerdiness that hung framed over the flatscreen, treated to the benevolent, bewildered stare of a Green brother from my Pizza John poster and a plump, plushy Blearch paperweight beckoning me to snacks and sleep. Finally, I took a deep breath and sat back up.

What use are stories and heroes, myth and legend if they don't teach us moral imperatives and/or how to respond in a crisis? Alright, then. Time to put my extensive knowledge of random trivia/folklore/fandoms to work. Ask yourself, Ida, what would David Wong do?

…get dragged unprepared into the apocalypse by his druggie best friend and an amazing explodable pot-smoking faux-Jaimacan. Go investigate. Make dick jokes. Ultimately be killed and replaced by an evil duplicate of himself who is actually a much better person [uh…spoiler alert. Sorry.]. Make another dick joke. Get the girl anyways. Make more dick jokes. Save the world as your own evil clone through a combination of soy sauce, sentient animals, and sheer dumb luck…and even more dick jokes.

Ooookay. No, then.

What would Sally Sparrow do?

…tell her best friend, go investigate, get said best friend trapped in the past. Go to police, get said policeman trapped in the past. Trust a stoner and a Time Lord she's only met on a televised loop to do the right thing. Basically, her super sleuth skills and judgment of personality nearly get everybody killed and she's only saved by Deus ex Machina*.

Sans a psychologically damaged, mass-murdering Time Lord with a tendency for supervillainism showing up with a TARDIS, I really wouldn't risk it.

What would Sherlock do?

…drag along his best friend, go investigate, make witticisms and nearly get everyone killed then miraculously save the day at the end through a combination of genius, coincidence, and cold-blooded murder with the enabling assistance of Her Majesty's Government [MOFFAT!].

Yeah, no. My big brother is an ex-Marine, sure, but he's got nothing on Mycroft.

What would Harry Potter do?

…drag along his two best friends, go investigate, break the rules, get into a shitload of trouble, and learn the hard way that not trusting the adults or authorities gets your godfather killed and endangers the lives of both your best friends and all your classmates. Make the noble sacrifice, then miraculously come back from the dead thus negating the life lesson of the permanence of Death and importance of accepting it. Swell.

Notice the pattern yet? Even fucking Frodo Baggins never speaks of his suspicions, runs off into the blue by himself, no plans, no guidance…and Sauron almost wins because of it. Of all my many fictional heroes, I know of only one who would've courted Boromir's friendship from the beginning, made Gandalf give them a back-up plan and a rendezvous point, had Gwaihir on speed dial, alerted Aragorn to the problem the very moment he thought Boromir was being tempted, and would not have wandered off alone carrying THE ONE FUCKING RING when the fate of the universe rested on it staying secret/safe, thus changing the fate the Fellowship and Middle-earth.

So then. What would Harry James Potter-Evans-Verres do*?

…remain self-aware and aware of surroundings. Already be prepared for the worst. Alert an authority immediately. Remove said authority or go higher up the chain of command until you find some adult willing to listen to him. Inform classmates of the danger. Go investigate. Seek out lesser evils and attempt to lure those teetering onto the side of logical consistency and rationality using a combination of smarts and decisions of dubious morality that are rationally excusable based on end game scenarios.

Alrighty, then, Ida. Get to it!

Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Step one: eliminate the impossible, and work backwards from there. I couldn't necessarily be right, but I made a conscious effort to be a little bit less wrong.

Bad trip. Insanity. Cosplaying stalkers. Fictional characters somehow coming to life violating everything I know about spacetime, science and reality itself. There. A list of possible explanations for the current crisis in ascending levels of impossibility and/or absolute awfulness. I was still rational/sane enough to have deliberated my way through this and to realize that, you know, given the arguments I'd just made to myself and was about to I _was almost entirely certainly fucking crazy_ , so as far as posing a danger to myself or Prerna besides the paranoia, I was self-aware and okay for the moment. I'd call Scott to get the name of his therapist in the morning.

Okay, so onto fictional characters. Or, as the Professor claimed, "pre-historical" characters on whom the Legendarium i.e. ancient European myths were based. But the seeming appearance of fictional characters from a book/movie in a world with public venues where fans did that in droves, even if it allowed for actual fictional characters to come to life…for them to be cosplaying fans was still a much greater probable outcome than their manifested presence. Einstein and Professor Brian Cox* both think time travel might be possible, so for heroes of earth's ancient [most likely metafictional] past to appear at NYC Comic Con wasn't  _entirely_  impossible per se, but still statistically improbable. And made even less likely since they looked like their fictitious book/movie counterparts [I mean, even if they WERE real, would they really bother to read LotR and watch Jackson's trilogy to make themselves more apparent?].

There. Temporary metaphysical/mental crisis averted.

…for now.

[CUE SYMPHONY FOR LOUD, UNSUBTLE FORESHADOWING*]

Which left Creepy Cosplaying Fetishist Stalkers. Less likely than insanity on my list of explanations, but more immediately dangerous. I jumped up, ran to the front door and turned the deadbolt. I already had my mace and taser in my purse, and resolved to keep it on my person at all times. Prerna was still getting dressed in the bedroom, but I knew for a fact the Bible Belter* was still just within a fingertips reach under my side—you know, the perpetually the unmade half—of the bed.

Okay. So for the moment we were secured, and I was aware of the possibility of danger. Next step? Alert an authority.

I didn't call the police. Didn't trust the police. It only takes one charge of biting a corrections officer to make them just a little bit leery, rude, and unhelpful asshats for life. But I did email the landlord and the security guards that maybe that Prerna's 'psycho ex-boyfriend' had bumped into us today and made some threatening gestures, and that he might be armed. Dude was tall, blonde, skinny, with long hair and a ginger sidekick.

There, I surveyed my masterpiece. That should do it.

Aaaand send.

We lived on the twenty-seventh floor. Between the sidewalk and our home there was a magnetic swipe strip on the internal lobby doors, Ernie the ever-friendly day-time Doorman or Fernando who Flaps in the Night, another magnetic key on the elevator and stairs, and at least six security cameras by my last count. Ours was the sort of building where people noticed suspicious activity, with enough nosey moms and neighbors that unusual shit got reported, and quickly [Spiderman gets the security guard sweep down every time he visits, both before and after fucking 'Stop and Frisk'.]. Fuck no we weren't  _unassailable_ —our little apartment wasn't the Eyrie*, but we were pretty damned safe.

…I know, I know. It's so damned obvious in hindsight*: the fucking fire escape.

* * *

*I mean the Lion King. I mean Doctor Who. I mean Game of Thrones. [I'm looking at you, Ned Stark. Right. At. You.]

*Or in this instance, its lesser known sister-trope 'David Tennant ex Machina'.

*WWHJPEVD? Snap his fingers, obviously. Chaos Legion, bitches.

I mean, he might also have attempted to dissuade the Council of Elrond from destroying the Ring in order to afford immortality to all Middle-earth species, tried to regain Saruman's allegiance, and would've used the Ring to overthrown Sauron then declared a universal democracy and forced Aragorn to abdicate the kingship and imperialism of Gondor and the line of Elendil, etc. before placing the Ring in a perpetual scientific trust to discover its inherent properties, thus benefitting all races equally. He probably would've also created four double-blinded Fellowships with each Hobbit and guides not knowing whether they bore the One Ring or not to increase their chances of evading the Dark Lord, but I digress…

*John Green might have a Professional Mathematician at his beck and call, but I've got a Rock God Physics Doctorate Comedian who I can watch on TiVo or YouTube anytime I want.

* _The Unfinished Spelling Errors of Bolkien_ is a must listen for any true LotR nerd who can rhyme Rohan with goin', thinks Denethor's onscreen death is as stupid as a pile of Shadowfax shit, and sincerely believes Khazad-dûm OSHA should sue for some safely rails.

*A gift from Spiderman, of course. And no—Scott and my parole officer don't know about it.

*Insert generic Bronn, son of You-Wouldn't-Know-Him, joke here [Cue laughter, drums, cymbal].

*Spiderman still gets the pat down/call up from Ernie & Fernie, Inc., but before you go yelling 'racism', just remember he brings it upon himself. Just last year Prerna had to convince some stupid mallcop not to taze him/press charges after walking into a Barneys and shouting "Black man in the building! Everybody down!"

*It might not have fucking Elf eyes, but I've heard it's at least 20/20.

 


	12. On Fairy-Stories

Somewhere, someplace, in some mystical, magic land, the fashion fairy waits to whisk young girls away and teach them things like how to match colors, style their hair, and put on make-up that doesn't look like color-blind Rose Tyler did it left-handedly in the back of a moving TARDIS dodging Daleks in the dark*. There they learn how to be good little girls and adorable princesses and sweetie-pies and cutie-patooties, and learn the benefits of Good Behavior, Perfect Posture, and—most importantly—how to unleash the power of the Color-Coordinated Purse & Shoes Ensemble*.

…needless to say, the fashion fairy never came for me*. Apparently my mother didn't leave enough cookies or shit for her. Prerna's mother, on the other hand, didn't just leave cookies she bought the bitch a whole damn bakery.

Fun fact: Did you know that the brain processes images in as little as 13 milliseconds? Eyes are awesome! Did you also know that the part of the brain responsible for the sexual arousal to visual stimuli literally shuts down the visual cortex* and everything else? These boots were made for fucking, people.

[This SciShow dose brought to you by Ida Anderson. To keep getting smarter with us, follow us on Subbable* or click subscribe!]

Ida, Ida, you're asking me, what's with all the nerdy asides?

Prerna "Foxy Minx" soon to be Anderson née Prashad, that's what.

I heard the door creak open behind me and whipped around, snapping the Red Book of Westmarch closed to hide my growing guilt/insanity…not that I need to've bothered. Prerna emerged slyly from the bedroom with an impish grin to say she knew she looked positively gorgeous, thank you very much, and would be accepting due worship, applause, and general mindless, sweaty, chaffing fuckery at her leisure.

…

No, really, I...

But—

WAIT.

—What?

WARNING. WARNING*. SYSTEM MALFUNCTION. HIGHER MENTAL FUNCTIONS SHUTTING DOWN.

[Note: The following narrative prose description of the physiologic response of the female genitalia to visual and/or tactile sexual stimulus has been censored for rating issues. If scientifically interested, see Dr. Lindsay Doe's fantastic Web Series Sexplanations for vernacularly-worded yet clinically accurate edutainment on nipple hardening, localized vascular throbbing, clitoral engorgement, cervical tenting, uterine contractions, and vaginal lubrication.]

Gone was shy, sweet, slightly awkward Prerna the still-in-the-closet-lesbian with her friends and family and some wickedly weird fetish fairy had left Sexy!Prerna in her place. Goodbye, Hermione Granger. Hello, Vina Asparta. Hola, Raina.* She strutted down the hall in 5 inch stilettos, her lipstick combat ready, packing cleavage that could fell an ox at twenty feet and wearing her best smile and brownest eyes*.

"Um, hello?" She said, bemusedly, standing feet from me when blood flow finally started going back through my brain, her painstakingly perfect perfectly-lipsticked lips pulled into the world's most perfect perfectly-lipsticked-lipped grin*. "Earth to Ida!"

"You. Look. Amazing." I managed to grunt*. Jewel-toned, low cut purple silk top over a generous, lacy push-up bra peeking through, form-fitting, high-waisted black pants tucked into the most extravagant pair of high heeled peep-toe sex boots I've ever seen. My girl came out of the closet and GOT. BUSY. "Who are you and what have you done with Prerna Prashad?"

That smile threatened to split her face open*. "Finished yet?"

Given that my bush had just been terraformed into the swamps of Dagobah, I did what any girl would do in the same situation. I shouted "Just about!", glomped her into my lap and snogged her face off.

Literally. Her next words were a wail of "Ida, my _lipstick—_!"

[So much for that ten minute makeover…]

"So getting all dressed up and sexified is a "look don't touch" deal?" I asked her as she straightened her hair (I still have no idea where she managed to find a patch of Devil's Snare that big in the middle of NYC. _Honestly_ …). "Is that some sort of sexual torture your people invented? Because as a US citizen I'm protected from the cruel and unusual."

"How disappointing," Prerna's eyes nearly disappeared into her liner and false lashes as she touched a deep-purple fingertip to her pouting lips. But this wasn't us—this wasn't _her_ , and within seconds she'd ruined the mood by bursting into giggles and sending a string of snot out her nose.

And that was that. All that effort and instead we were cracking up, gasping, tears rolling down cheeks, clutching each other but in the end we fell off the computer chair _a la Casino Royale_ anyways.

Some people in this instance might have had sex. We had squishy, giggly cuddles.

It's a thing*. You might not find it in the Kama Sutra, but it works for us.

Oh. And she peed herself. _Again_.

[Bladder: 2; Prerna: 0*]

"Again? Really?" I asked as I hauled her into the bathroom to get her cleaned up. She was still laughing so hard she couldn't stand, although the giggles and snorts had turned to groans of belly pain. "Damage assessment?"

Her face and chest flushed my favorite shade of dusky crimson. "You know that scene, with the talking trees—"

"Release the River?" I whistled. "That bad?

"Shut up," she moaned as she changed from ruined lacy lingerie into her usual high-cut cottons. "We're going to be late!"

"Sexy lingerie*?" I raised an eyebrow.

"You know, you could make an effort sometime," she scolded me.

"Hey, I'm not wearing any underwear," I argued as she burst into laughter (and nearly peed herself anew). Which, despite what the movies may tell you, is 100% just plain damn gross. Not only do you have to worry about skid marks and lady jizz on your favorite jeans*, but it makes Spiderman's surprise depantsings as awkward as hell (which is now the main reason I do it, just to watch him squirm in embarrassment/horror at my bush).

But finally we were ready, ring on her finger, paint on her toes, color-coordinated purse in hand, hand in hand, getting ready to walk out of our apartment and into the widening world for the first time as fiancees. So I looked over at her, my Sun-and-Stars, the love of my life*, my Lúthien, this beaming, blushing ball of excitement and hormones who'd be my bride, and I asked the singular, burning question that'd been on my mind since she'd come out earlier in the evening so openly:

"Prerna, sweetie, can you even _walk_ in those things*?"

* * *

 

*Forget the Daleks, BEWARE THE CLUMPS. But ye ol' Tits&Teeth was my first companion, so it's hard to hate her—and yes. I started watching after the 2005 reboot. 'MURICA!

*Hawt damn.

*Same with my tits, Prince Fucking Charming and my Hogwarts Letter, as Scott used say. As an aside, he also used to say I inherited our dad's tits…he stopped when I started telling his prospective girlfriends/fucktoys he'd gotten his dick from our mom.

*Your Amygdala: Fuck eyes. Fuck ALL THE THINGS! (Insert Allie Brosh caption here.)

*Because 2014, and "patrons on Patreon" just doesn't have the same ring to it.

*Fucking YOWZA. Do not, at this point, Yowz.

*Well, you've certainly illustrated the diversity of the word.

*My ladybits went from 0 to Defcon1 quicker than as many licks as it takes an owl to get to the center of a tootsie pop (that um, that was actually a lot dirtier sounding than I meant it to be). And no, fyi, I'm most assuredly NOT in the habit of referring to my clit as 'Will Robinson', although in this case the analogy is rather apt.

*And if you don't get those references, then clearly you haven't read enough Salman Rushdie or Rainbow in the Dark. What's that, you ask? It's an Indie comic, motherfuckers. Go buy it immediately. Why, you ask? Because it's the graphic novel that Gotham needs, and also the one she deserves. Essentially a My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic Twilight Sparkle/Rainbow Dash slash fanfic told in the manner of Lisa Frank meets Frank Miller. And it's everything you could ever want it to be.

[I would've gone with Amanita but it was 2014, dammit, and sense8 hadn't come out (pardon the pun) yet. And given how much time travel/transdimensional shit was about to go down, this story doesn't need any unnecessary anachronisms…]

*Well you've certainly illustrated the diversity of the word.

*Hey, I'm Caucasian. Odds are I'm AT LEAST 3% Neanderthal, so give a girl some credit, will you?

*You can forget the TARDIS. I know where the crack in Amy's wall came from…

*Just ask Sherlock.

*Not that anyone's keeping score, mind you...

*Yeah, right. With as many accidents as that girl has, she can't wear sexy underwear any longer than it takes for me to slide them off her.

* TMI, Ida. TMI. Also, as I'm writing this, I distinctly remember the tag making my ass itch.

*And liver! If you've never read DIGGER, then you're missing out on some of the greatest one-liners in the history of webcomics, not to mention this little cross-cultural gem: "My darling, my carrion-scented flower, you gnaw my liver—let us enter into a binding legal contract together until the stars fall from the sky, as determined in subparagraph F, section 12." (Blood and Shale, NO!)

*My girl was very, very, and I mean very fond of flats and other practical footwear for a job that kept her on her tiny feet all day.


End file.
